A World of Hurt
by I8dask8s4lunch
Summary: In the span of a second, your life can change forever in spectacular and horrifying ways. No one knows this better than Clark Kent....I'm playing catch-up and adding everything I have for this fic. PLEASE REVIEW!
1. Default Chapter

Hey guys, this is my first fan fic. It's not up to par with my usual work but I thought I'd post it anyway.   
  
I'd like all comments, be it about grammar, characterization, or just what you like/don't like about it. I'm a relatively new writer, so please be brutally hontest! Thanks guys.   
  
I'll be posting it in installments as I finish them, but I have the story mapped out.   
  
Now, onto the show!  
  
Darkness consumed the world, minute by minute, shadows chasing the last beams of the day away. The world started to grow still and silent, not odd for a small town but unsettling in itself. Night brought out the demons of Smallville, Chloe would never deny that, she'd had too much expirence walking on the weirder side of the town. But tonight, the scene didn't off set Chloe. She had much more important things to do.  
  
Hurrying through the school, Chloe whisked past the darkened class rooms and into her haven. Flicking the light switch on, she set down her ex-large mocha frapachino-extra caffine, she was in need of a buzz-on the desk and turned on the computer, waiting impatienlty for it to load. Taking a sip of the scalding coffee, she set it down with a smile and a "mmm" and settled in for the night, purely content.  
  
Chloe had an article swirling around in her mind and wanted to get the words out before they fell away. The Torch, oddly enough, was the one place she felt safe in the world. Despite the fact her beloved paper was the cause of mayhem and trouble, plauged by various break ins and fire in the last two years. Those were long forgotten on a brisk autum night, leaving a simply comfortable feeling in her stomach. 'This', she thought, 'this is right'.  
  
Chloe double clicked on a program and tapped away at the keyboard, fingers flying at a hundred miles an hour. Soon the world melted away and Chloe was engulfed in her own head. She was in her element, and wouldn't be yanked out of the words she loved until the caffine stopped flowing.  
  
So engrossed in her writing, so safe and content, Chloe never noticed the slow, quiet footsteps echo down the hall outside. The rustle of a long, black trench coat, or even the soft squeak his brand new designer shoes made. No, Chloe was oblivous to it all as she slurped away at her frapachino. That is why when he finally spoke, she nearly spilled coffee all over her favorite PC in surprise.  
  
"Ms. Sullivan," acknoldged the black-clad figure that lurked and mingled naturally in the shadows. He smiled as she flinched and caught the nearly-overturned coffee cup before it spilled. "We need to have a talk."  
  
"Mr. Luthor," The venom in her voice unmistakable but measured out of fear. "What about? I thought we'd settled everything."  
  
"I wouldn't say that. Have you decided to keep your end of the deal?" His mane of hair and arrogant, proding nature infuriated her, even more so when he starred out at her from behind a pair of sunglasses so she couldn't see his beady, black eyes. 'Who wears sunglasses at night? In a school? While threatening a high-schooler? Man, this guy is the devil, isn't he?' Was all she could think as she tourtered herself for even getting involved with such a magnificant bastard.  
  
"No, I haven't, as I said the other two times you asked me. Mr. Luthor, loyalty may not mean anything to you, but Clark is worth more than what you can do to me."  
  
"Perhaps you're right, Ms. Sullivan. You are such a good friend aren't you? But maybe it isn't yourself you should be worried about."  
  
Chloe was visibly unaroused by this comment. There had been so many threats before, and the subtlty was becoming less by the visit. Inside, though, she shook and fought to remain in control. How easy it would be to rip him out, but no, Lionel Luthor was the scum of the Earth and she would not give him the satisfaction and refused to lose control. So instead, she opted to sit quietly, stare at the screen saver straight in front of her and let him finish speech.  
  
"Ms. Sullivan, I have other methods of getting what I want, so reguardless of your 'loyalties', I will find out what I need. All I'm asking is your help. You have so much to lose and nothing to gain by protecting him. After all, remember why you made this deal in the first-"  
  
"Yes, I made this deal because I was very, very stupid. I will not make that mistake again."  
  
"Ah, Ms. Sullivan, you just did. You have one week to get me what I want." His eyes flashed for just one minute before he swiftly he turned on his foot and strode down the hall through the blackened school. Chloe cursed herself for letting sink into her article and get wrapped up in her illusion of safety. Why had she even come down here? Mr. Luthor always showed up here, and this particular demon always visited at night. Sighing, she turned back to her screen to collect her thoughts her index fingers slowly massaging her temples in hyptonic circles.  
  
At that moment, Clark Kent, just as silent on his feet as Lionel, made his way down the hall. Chloe's dad said she was here and Clark thought she might like some company. The two hadn't really seen each other in days and she'd like the together time. Besides, he was certain that Chloe would need some help to get the Torch done and down to the printers by tomorrow morning. She always took too much on and Clark was only too glad to help. Clark made a point to make some noise as he stood in the doorway, knowing how much Chloe hated to be snuck up on. He grinned from ear to ear and thought, 'Maybe she deserves it for being in a big, creepy school by herself at night.' Chuckling to himself, he cleared his throat and started to walk in to give her one of the extra-tall lattees he'd brought from the Talon. His smiled upped in wattage as he thought of her face when she saw he'd gotten extra whipped-cream and chocolate sprinkles for her.  
  
Hearing a man clear his throat at the door jerked Chloe from her thoughts of Lionel, and certain that he had come back once again, she raised her voice and called "Mr. Luthor, why did you come back. I can't do this, Clark means more-" But as she spun gracefully in her chair, her face turned a shade of crimson Clark had never seen before as she realized her mistake. Clark's body stiffened and he rose from his position slouched in the doorway. He walked steathly toward her, fear and suspicion shining brightly in his un-Earthly blue-green eyes sat down across from her. Petrified, Chloe froze in her chair. She'd been so consumed with Mr. Luthor she hadn't thought someone else would come. 'Oh god. Oh god, no,' was all she could think as her brain braked from hyper-drive into oblivion.  
  
"Chloe," he said carefully, a low growl in his voice. "What are you talking about?" He prayed there was some explaination other than the obvious.  
  
Chloe's eyes bugged out, her mind frozen, the proverbal deer caught in the head lights. She opened her mouth and closed it, a picture of in decision.  
  
"Chloe," he said again, "Have you been talking to Mr.Luthor? About me?" 'No, please, no,' blearing like a stero on high through out his whole brain, screamed with his whole heart.  
  
Again Chloe just sat there, staring now at her hands. A tear curved a glistening path down her cheek and she was beyond words, beyond reality, in world colored by shame and hurt, anger and guilt. All she could was nod. "Clark, I did something...Something really bad." Sinking into her chair, level voice despite the tears flooding down her face, she began to speak.  
  
Oh yeah, *I don't own any of the characters of Smallville. This is all my own creation with the chars off the WB show.* That's a good enough disclaimer, right? 


	2. Chapter Two

Thanks for the reviews guys.   
  
I totally agree with you, The Die Hard. Smallville tends to leave off really good plots, and I hope they keep going with this one. Here's to hoping for that!  
  
Nows here's the second part. Reviews are much appreciated! Now, onto the show.  
  
  
  
Gathering herself and taking deep, healing breathe, Chloe turned back to Clark. Her red-rimmed eyes pleaded forgiveness and her tear-stained face looked as though the world had fallen down around her and she had been buried in the wreakage. This only registered in the back of Clark's mind as he sat, staring at one of his best friends, knowing that she might well have just signed his death warrant. He was horrified by what he'd just heard, but it simply could be as bad as he imagined. He decided to wait and see what she told him.  
  
"A few months before school was out last year, Lionel Luthor approached me. He said that if I'd be willing to look into you, your background, family, etc, anything I could find, he'd get me a job at the Daily Planet as a guest columnest." At this point, Clark was trembling a little, looking at his friend totally aghast, the color draining out of his face, faster every second until he was a shade of white that reminded Chloe of a fresh fallen snow. Still, he kept his mouth clamped shut, just staring with wide, open eyes. 'This is worse,' Chloe thought, 'why can't he just yell? Yell and scream and jump up and down. Hurt me like I've hurt him. No, this is definetly worse.' Steadying herself, she continued. "I told him in no uncertain terms I was not going to do it. He seemed to get it and I didn't hear from him again." Clark just stared, his glaze piercing Chloe, willing her to go on and unnerving her at the same time. Realizing that was all the response she was going to get, she plunged on.  
  
"Last year, after you left for Metropolis, I was hurting so bad. I felt like you'd stabbed me in the back and that nothing could ever be the same in my life without you. And the more I hurt and kept hurting, the more I wanted to hurt you back. So I went to see Mr. Luthor and told him that I'd reconsidered. I accepted, Clark." At this, Clark stomach fell so hard and so fast he was sure the sound was audible. 'Okay, this is it. My life is officially over,' was all he could think. He was so digusted and betrayed he couldn't even look at her any more. His legs were telling him that he should get out of there, run, flee, his was no longer safe for the life he was living. Lionel Luthor was after him and he'd already gotten to his friends. Shuddering involunterarily at the thought of the fate that awaited him, he bored holes in the ground with the intensity of his glare. Then he glanced slightly up at Chloe, and nodded for her to continue.  
  
Chloe had never worse felt then the moment when he shuddered. He looked so betrayed and so ancient suddenly that the tremor passing through him was more like an earthquake that crumbled the foundations. 'I did that. I just shattered his world.' Soundlessly, the tears once again poured down her cheeks and she went on.  
  
"I found you in Metropolis soon after. You were so different and disturbing that whatever shame I felt in cashing in the offer dissolved. But I was still suspicous about Mr. Luthor and his motives about you that the only work I forked over was the report I did on you in school last year. I kept delving into your past, the adoption, everything I could find though. I vowed that if you gave me reason enough, I was going to give him what he wanted. But you never did. You hurt me so much emotionally, but you never crossed that line of no return. The more time I gave it, the worse I felt and the worse I needed to get you home, back to normal. Eventually you did, and I knew I could never, ever, ever give Lionel that information. You meant, and mean, so much to me, I was terrified that I would lose you all over again."  
  
She shivered, knowing that it her that was turning the lovable Clark Kent into the shell of a man across from her. None of the friendly spark in his eyes or confidence she knew so well was there. He was dim, recluse, affected. Now she just wanted it to be over, just wanted to words to fly into his head without her ever having to saying them so that he could scream at her. Tell her how horrible she was, reenforce the feeling coarsing through her body, lacing with her soul, and wracking her with pain. But he just sat, slowly nodding again, zapping her energy and killing her softly with his silence. And soon she wasn't aware she was speaking anymore, there were just words falling out of her mouth, tumbling over one another in a desperate attempt to explain, to right her wrongs.  
  
"At first, he was happy with the report. But when I refused to continue, he got so angry. I offered to return all her gave me, with my apology for not being able to help him, that you meant too much to me. He said you were lucky to have such a friend and left. I breathed again, thinking that it was over. I was wrong. Oh, Clark, I've never been so wrong." She was rushing, but stopped and sucked in some air, gasping from the effort of holding back her sobs.  
  
"That's when the threats started. My family, my friends, the Torch. He threated to fire my dad, Clark!" She snuck a side-long glance at him, but he wasn't responding, just studying his shoe with a rapt attention, as though the fate of the world could be told there in his dirt-stained shoe laces. She plowed on. "I was terrified, but wouldn't budge in my opinion, giving him nothing, trying to get out of the deal I'd made with the devil. Didn't work, as you can tell. I sold my soul Clark, and I couldn't be more sorry."  
  
Finally, he looked at her again. It was a level look, some of the color flushing back into his cheeks. It was an eternity that he sat there, hands holding his head up, propped on his knees. Mercifully, he found what he was looking for at last, letting her drop her gaze. And though his beautiful, unnatural eyes still shone with a bottomless pain and fear Chloe had never known, even now, he opened his mouth. "No, Chloe, you sold me. Our friendship, maybe my life. I know that you were hurt, and that I hurt you. I'm sorry I had to be the one to do it, much more than you know. I'd never truly gripped what I'd done though. Now I see it." He paused, studying her deep green eyes, pools of regret and sorrow. "Chloe, you are playing in a game you don't understand with a weapn more powerful than you realize. And you just burned not only yourself with it, but me too." Including himself seemed to be an after thought, as he was obviously worried about her. That just made her feel worse, sucking her heart straight out of her chest. "Lionel Luthor is a very dangerous man, more than you know. Right now, just keep your head down, okay? I need some time with this."  
  
With a grace she'd never noticed before, he rose and walked toward the door. Clark looked just like more than human, in both the hollowness his cheeks adapted and the depth of pain. His shoulders seemed heavier, as if the weight of the world wasn't enough and he was now burdened with the weight of himself as well. His face drooping and long, Chloe saw a tear wind it's way down his face. Clark looked beaten in a way Chloe had never seen before, and turning around, he faced her, eyes locking with hers and delivering the message straight into her soul before he even spoke. He murmerred a mournful "I'm sorry" and he slunk down the hall and out of the school, merging with the shadows and slipping easily away into the night.  
  
Her heart clattered to her feet and shattered into a thousand pieces. The sound of it was deafening in her mind, and Chloe's perfect night was nothing but an illusion, becking cruelly at her from a courner of her mind, the thoughts she'd had just an hour ago missing without a trace.  
  
In one fell swoop, Chloe was sure she'd lost all that mattered in her life.   
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	3. Chapter Three

Girdude: I agree! Lionel needs to pay... Maybe it's just me, but I think a lot of people on this show need a wake-up call. This story is my of delievering the message.  
  
Beaker164: I really like Clark in the third season, and so I decided that is the Clark I wanted to portray. I can't tell you how happy it makes me feel that you like it.   
  
Every Reviewer: Thanks so much for the reviews! They really make me want to continue with the story and I appreciate your taking time to respond to my fic. I'm very new to the whole writing thing, much less fan fiction, and to have you guys be so kind...is fabulous. Thank you, so much.  
  
Now, two chapters. :)  
  
Clark had stepped off the curb of the high school just an hour ago, his mind racing so fast it was hard to distinguish one passing thought from the next. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the ground, trying to catch a thought and go with it, formulate a plan and place to go. But soon, his feet were moving, and Clark was running, frosty air biting at his cheeks, heart pounding, hair flying, clothes whipping around in the wind, holding him back. He streaked across the night, leaving the human world behind and propelling his body into the beyond. Foot after foot rammed the pavement, and he panted, losing breathe with each step, heart flying wildly in his chest with a coarse, unsteady beat. The world was silent, a still plane around him, no meaning in any of the scenary floating past him, just parked cars, blank faces, familiar buildings that willed him on. Tearing through the air, parting the very atoms around him, he ran until he had no breathe. Not from from the effort but the motivation. And finally, he stopped, the race between body and mind halted, and Clark collasped on the ground, regaining his composure and lasping into a mute state, lost in the laberynth of his mind.  
  
After his run, his thoughts had finally slowed, his body catching up with them. They had made him dizzy for sheer mass at first but now they seemed collected and he could file through them at his leisure. Silencing his breathe, his heart had settled and beat rythmically again. Why had Chloe done this? How could she be so angry, so betraying in that anger? Did he not mean as much as he had thought to her? 'No, that can't be right,' he mused. The look in her eye had been one of sincere regret. She was horrified with herself. So why wasn't he more angry with her? 'Because I know where she's coming from. I understand her.' And in a way it was true. He set her motivations aside. Right now, he had to figure out what Lionel knew, how much danger he was in, and what information she had given him. Tomorrow...tomorrow he would ask Chloe for a copy of every scrap of paper she had given that wretched, flithy beast.  
  
Still, the fear hadn't subsided in him. Lionel knew something was different about him. He had an interest in Clark, and if he had an interest, Lex probably had an interest again. He knew all too well that Lex and his father were independent brokers of information, one rarely knowing what the other was truly up to despite the tabs that kept on each other nonetheless. The both knew what the other was doing, but the whys, the hows, and the whats of were often left out of their information. That was dangerous, espcially now. Lionel might very well have investigated Clark purly because of his friendship with Lex and found something else that intersted him. Or Lex might be having him followed again, and Lionel wanted to know why. Maybe Lex had shared information with father, maybe they were in cahoots...  
  
His mind buzzed with possiblites, the majority including Lex. No, was all he could think. Clark had to believe right now that Lex wasn't involved. Losing two friends to betrayl in one day was just too overwhelming to handle, even for him. Suddenly, through his daze of concentration, he saw the dial of the watch that Pete had bought him for Christmas last year. The time flashed in eerie green florestant numbers, snapping him harshly back to the present. It was a half hour past his curfew and his parents were going to be livid. It was the third this month he'd lost track of time, and knowing the gravity of the news he was going to deliever, now was not the time to catch them in a dark mood.  
  
Bewildered, he studied his surroundings. A pristine lake spread out before him, glittering in the moon light, crystal clear and tinted cobalt blue. Surrounding the lake was a forest, chalked full of pine and undergrowth. It was nature in it's purest, untouched by the stifling hand of humanity. And listening, he heard the gentle sounds of the woods and all its inhabitants stirring in the night. Over head the moon hung in the sky as if held there by some omnipotent force. It glowed a warm, golden hue, bathing the world in it's brillance, accompanied by the twinkling stars that enraptured him every night. Clark had never seen them so bright, so exquisite, and yet so cyrtic and alluring at the same time. He was seized by the beauty around him and the suddeness of it, forgeting himself for a moment.  
  
A short moment. There was something out of place, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. A low buzzing of electricty? He stared in to the forest, pentrating the trees in front of him and seeing beyond them, peeling each strand of the world in front of him back like and onion so he could see the core. There, he saw it. A cabin, isolated deep in the wood, with a strange blue glow within. Thinking that someone might still be awake and able to tell him the way out, he headed there.  
  
Pausing outsie, he found a simple residence built entirely of logs. It was decaying and looked as if no one had been there in a decade or more. Before Clark moved on, he took a quick scan of the house, just to be certain. There were a few roach motels and a bug zapper inside, the producer of the strange light the house emitted. Other than that, the house seemed just as rustic as the outside foretold. It was vacant and drery, almost entirely void of furniture aside from a small decrepid desk and chair at one side of the cabin, along with a satilite phone on the floor beside it. If Clark had any intention of leaving the forest, it was squelched when he noticed what lined the walls. A new ripple of fear flooded him, and a slow shiver trembled through his body.  
  
In the middle of nature, he'd found a recluse precence of humanity, and what the owner had brought with them terrified him to depth of his very existance.  
  
What do ya think? 


	4. Chapter Four

I just realized I am super-cool and posted chapter two twice, so I fixed it now and this is a new chapter. Two chapters to make up for it :)  
  
Girdude: My best friend loves the cartoon char gir too. I assume your talking about the robot dog from Invader Zim?   
  
Sam: I like the plot too, and personally, I don't like how they're handling it on the show. They leave it for a while and then add a little, then leave it in favor of some Clark and Lana drama. And I hated Chloe in Whisper for the most part. So here's to a now AU.  
  
Beaker: I love your reviews. They make me feel so good. :)  
  
Clark stared, eyes wide as dinner plates and his heart jumped once again. Confused and in a daze, he peered more carefully at the wall. There, in the center, were pictures of him. Eating lunch at school with his friends, cheering on the football team at the homecoming game with Chloe at his side, picking up his books, catching the football just before impact with Chloes face that the jocks had thrown freshman year. There were even a few pictures of the Talon and his house from a far. Off to the right of the collage was a line of pictures, all candid shots, of Pete at football practice, Chloe typing away at the Torch, Lana serving coffee and finally Lex, sipping his favorite lattee at his usual table in the coffee shop. Underneath those were pictures of his parents working on the farm, tending cattle or fixing equipment.  
  
Shifting his gaze, he looked the right, a sinking feeling in his stomach that grew every second. There was another collage containing more scattered photos, only this time with solid red or dashed green lines connecting each of them to him. Now a sense of dispair and urgency rushed through him as he studied the pictures with a fervent interest. Tina Greer, Justin Gaines, and Greg Arkin, among others, were posted in a chaotic sense of order. Every person he'd battled or saved in some form or another was there, all of the meteor mutants and victims listed, even some faces he couldn't place. A cold realization slid down his throat. Solid lines indicated the events the police knew he was involved in. The ones he'd bothered to stay with or had been at the scene for some reason or another.  
  
Goosebumps spread across his body like a rash and his hair prickled on the back of his neck. Clark's hearing picked up every sound in the woods, none more thunderous than the precarious thumping of his own heart. He felt as though his body were betraying him, giving him up to the whole forest, which now seemed a harbor for darkness than one of beauty. His ragged breathe caught in his throat with each inhalation as adrenaline surged through his veins, empowering him against evils unseen but undoubtably present. Paranoia leeched through his system, jacking his energy up a level and leaving him with almost uncontrolable instincts. Clark almost stopped thinking, the stimulation his body had created nearly too much for him to bear.  
  
"Whoa, okay, calm down, you're okay..." he whispered, hoping to aleviate the blackness surrounding him. Instead, his plan backfired and he got spooked at the sound of his own voice. Clark just wanted to bolt, but the little sense he had left told him to look for more. Eyeing the desk drawers, he peeled away layers of the obvious and scanned their contents. Police reports and newpaper articles lay within. Loosing his patience, he almost took off when he noticed a pile of papers that stood out. There, in a small, manila file folder, he found the most disturbing discovery of all.  
  
There was his name, printed in non-descript letters across the first sheet of paper. 'It's a title page,' the thought striking him with horror. The report continued on, detailing his height, weight, hair and eye colors, even his shoe size. 'My basic stats, like a lab speciman,' he wondered grimly. But that was just a prelude to information within.  
  
Letters he'd written, school work ranging from kindergarten to his current year, personal mail sent to him, a detailed report of his life, a copy of the forged birth certificate his parents had arranged, and a scanned copy of his drivers licence were just a start of the file. By the time he noticed a poster that Lana had put up around Metropolis in his missing time, Clark had had enough. Rage boiled over in him as he visibly shook with such complicated feelings he couldn't even name them. He wanted to break in, to steal all the information about himself. Crush the photographs and burn down the shack. But he couldn't; all he'd succeed in by doing would prove his precence there. Whoever was stalking him, so obsessed with his life, was dangerous, not only to him but to those he cared for. And letting them find out what he knew was not an option. So Clark let go of his concious mind and forgot the war his heighted instincts had been waging with his brain.  
  
It seemed nothing in his life was his anymore, and his certainty about his world had shattered hours ago. But he was sure about one thing. Lionel Luthor was somehow involved, and he'd gotten his start with Chloe.  
  
Freaked, Clark did the one thing that seemed to make sense at the moment. He ran as fast as his extraordinary legs would carry him.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	5. Chapter Five

It had been a long night. Clark had dragged himself up the steps and slipped through the door as quietly as possible. He knew there was no point in the measures he was taking to arrive unseen, that his parents would find him and badger him with questions until they got the full story, but that didn't stop him. The effort felt good. Like he was a normal kid that had just stayed out late necking with his girlfriend or drinking instead of having his whole mindset and security shattered in the space of few hours. 'Cause, yeah,' he thought sarcasticly, 'that's how every teenager wants to spend their friday night.' He was so distracted and wrapped up in himself that he didn't notice his parents standing behind him as he stealthily shut the mahogany wood door.  
  
His mother's face was painted with worry and fatigue. As if her day working mind and body on the farm wasn't enough, she'd stayed up all night waiting for him. Now, her worry faded faster than the color drained out of the sky after a sunset. Now, she saw he was in one full piece, trying to sneak in, and her mother bear instincts took over. She stood sternly next to her husband, who was already taking a deep breathe in to start the lecture of the century. The worry lines on his weather-worn face stood out in the dim lighting of the kitchen, his sunstained hair drooping slighting from a long day of physical labor and a wearing night of keeping his frantic wife from running out the door to locate her son. He'd nearly been up for twenty four hours now and he was irate with his son. Jonathan could not understand why his son had let them down. It was the third time this month he hadn't bothered with curfew. 'Granted, he always has a good reason,' he thought. Wearily, he thought back to two weeks ago, the last time-  
  
His thoughts and his breathe were interrupted though, as Clark lumbered around and plopped down at the kitchen table, head cradled delicately in his hands, massaging his temples, the corners of his face left showing red and raw. Any anger either parent had was instantly vaporized; it became obvious Clark was late for a reason. They sat down opposite him, falling into a well-known and terrible routine. Neither pushed the boy across the table, they just sat, waiting for him to collect his thoughts enough to tell them. Neither dare venture a guess at what as to come; they'd seen too much to suppose they'd even get close. With Clark's problems, at least there was always variety.  
  
Eventually, Clark raised his head and looked straight into his father's eyes. And in that instant, Jonathan knew. This was worse than they had ever dealt with before. Clark was torn up by whatever had taken place, his face a picture of every awful feeling in the book, grief, sorrow, pain, and anger all evident before Jonathan's eyes. 'I'll bet that's not the half of it,' he realized.  
  
And so Clark told them, word after word spilling from him mouth like some terrible, bitter poison he wanted nothing better than to be done with. He was numb with exhaustion. The whole time he stared straight down at the table top as though fascinated by the patterns in the grain of the dark wood and could find not only the answers to his problems but salvation there as well. Soon, his eyes softened, and he was no longer in the kitchen. He was reliving every horrid revelation that the night had brought and all of the feelings that those revelations had stirred in him, some of which he had never known before. Their depth was startling, as though he was falling through a bottomless pit and all he wanted was the merciful impact that would never come.  
  
There was no slant to events of the night in the simplistic explanation he gave. It was just words, just facts, letting his parents make up their own mind as he was much too tired for the semantics of things; he knew his parents would agree with him on this one. And when the whole story, complete was sorid details, had been finished, he looked up silently once more. His eyes telling his take on the evening. Just as he had expected. There he read his own feelings in every line of his parents face, reflected there with sympathy. 'Good enough for tonight,' he thought. Without a word more, Clark rose from the table and carried himself up the stairs. Within minutes, he was lost in a fitful, dream ridden sleep.  
  
The next morning, he awoke some what refreshed. The dreams that had haunted him were a distant memory filed away in the back of his mind. As vivid as they had been, he knew that they were just products of his imagination, not real enough to bother with. He drifted in and out of conciousness for a while, the events of the prior night filtering back to him slowly. Clark dealt with each as they were drawn to the forefront of his mind as though they were his nightmares. He didn't feel quite so overwhelmed as before, coming to terms with the memories, sorting through them. Not to say that he wasn't upset and horrified by them, he felt every feeling that he had the night before. They just seemed unreal. It was comforting for a while, to pretend his life was just a bad dream that he could look at subjectively, knowing that the mosters and problems weren't really his. In his heart, he knew they weren't going to be solved by laying in bed and imagining them false. The detatchment gave him some clarity though. Clark could see the problems and the feelings associated with them for what they were and examine the motives behind them and how to deal with them. This peace though, ended quite abruptly as he glanced lazily at the clock. The dial pulverized his day dream and pulled him kicking and screaming back to reality. This wasn't a dream, Chloe had betrayed him so radically he was in real danger, and on top of it all, he was late.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	6. Chapter Six

The minute he reached the bottom of the stairs, he went into "Clark time," as he liked to call it. Shovling in some delectable homemade waffles his mom had layed out for him, he straightened his blue flannel shirt, popped on his favorite work boots, and speeding over to the door, he slowed with his hand grasping the door knob and the clear intent to walk on out. He spent the next ten minutes in that pose convincing his mom to allow him to step out the door onto the porch, much less go to the Talon. In fact, if his father hadn't intervined and backed him up, he'd would probably still be there pleading with her unweilding face. With strict instructions that under no circumstances short of death or volcanic eruption was he to use his ablilities for anything, he'd bounded down the steps before his mom could rebuttal. Hence why his mother had offered up the keys when he asked without argument. Now, five minutes later, he couldn't believe his good luck as he bumped along the road in the familys ancient red pickup on the way to meet Pete at the Talon for day of their own. The radio blasted out the hardest rock station Clark could find, the volume kicked up a few extra notches in the otiose attempt to drown out his thoughts and questions the previous night had raised. Instead, he'd only succeed in driving a few cows farther into their respective pastures and getting a few strange looks from workmen he sped by.  
  
Clark bobbed his head to beat and thumped out the drum solo on the steering wheel. Today he'd spend the day with Pete. Chloe and Lana were supposed to meet him, but Clark doubted even Chloe had the audacity to show up after her confession of the night before. Certainly she'd told Lana what had happened; the two were room mates after all and he certainly wasn't going to break news of her betrayl to everyone in school himself. Sighing deeply, he became lost in his thoughts and the fast rythm of the song. Until, that is, the bus flipped off out of the lane in front of him doing a spectacular 1080 before finally resting on the road.  
  
The day hadn't been the best for the haggard crew riding on the bright yellow school bus. None had ridden on one for years, not since they were in high school instead of just teaching it. The conference of the American Teachers Association at Metropolis started at eight in the morning, meaning that with the three hour drive, extra half hour to get into the city, and time it took to meet and load the bus, most of the staff had been up since three in the morning. None were in particularly good moods at that thought of attending a festival to learn to the newest 'techniques' none would ever apply to the classroom. Or at the three hour ride crammed on a smelly and packed school which rattled over every pit and pothole in the long-ago paved country road for that matter. Not to mention the fact that the final arrival in the city had shown them that the date on the notice the school had recieved was wrong. Due to a mix up, no one had bothered to mention it to the small town high school. The conference was actually next weekend, and they would have to make the entire trip again then. Overall, the day thus far had made for a very crabby group of teachers all stuffed uncerimoniously on a dragging school bus. And that is the moment the front tire chose to rip to shreds, sending a bus full of rioting, worn-out adults pitching lopsidedly down the road.  
  
Clark hit the breaks so hard he tore a hole in the bottom of the truck, tearing the break line as the car fish-tailed. Pulling a Fred Flinstone, he stopped the truck with his foot before it could flip into the mangled yellow remains. Flames licked the engine, melting the hood cover and threatening to engulf the whole bus then and there. Both wheels were shreded in front, leaving the chassy exposed to the cool mid-day air. The back axel was twisted oddly out of place and windows on all sides had been blown out, spreading shards of glass all over the two lane road, some embedded in the asphalt. After rolling three times, the roof was bent in at odd angles. And the whole scene was covered in blood, with steaks on the windows, the seats that had been over turned, mingling with the dark road and caking the unlucky victims, most of whom were in shock. In fact, the crash had been racked with screams from the bus, and Clark was horrified to realize that now, no sound came from the ruins, not even a peep. It shook him, causing him to pause for a moment and wonder if he was too late and all of the people had been killed. Banishing the thought from his mind, he leapt into action.  
  
Clark rushed over and peered into the wreckage. He recognized nearly everyone, and all were bleeding, unconcious, or worse. He didn't even pause to think about his fathers words of only minutes before. It was precarious a situation at the moment for there to even be a chance for someone to find out about his secret, and Clark knew that. But standing there, the only hope for miles and possibly hours, watching his teachers bleed out, he couldn't just do nothing. Clark sped into action.  
  
'First things first,' he thought, reaching the head of the bus and smothering the fire with his bare hands. He wouldn't do any good if the people all baked to death before he could help them. Wiping his hands on his already dusty blue jeans, he edged in a slow circle around the bus, surveying the damgage. He formulated a plan of attack in an instant, reaching the side just as he started to hear voices from within. They were stirring. 'At least their alive,' he thought.  
  
The bus was on it's side and the best way in would be peeling the roof back. Remembering the repercussions from the last time he'd done that with Lex and the questions it raised, he decided the roof hatch was safest. Muscling the door open, he carefully climbed into the bus. One by one, he reached each person and pulled them from the burning wreckage. By that time, several had woken up and called desperatly out to him. He paused to comfort them, helping them from the bus first so they might be able to help him. Only one man and a woman were well enough to be of any use, and he took charge, letting them apply any first aid they could. He set to work on the unconcious next. Laying each damaged body of the side of the road, he returned for about 20 people before plucking the last victim from the crash. By that time, it was about 30 minutes later. He'd been careful, not unafraid of using his powers as much as he was that it might inflame the wounded and arouse suspicion. Another car had stopped about 20 minutes in, and the frantic twenty-something had been useless aside from dialing up the police on her cell phone and stuttering out the location. Clark had simply chosen to ignore her; he had more pressing matters on his mind. It seemed surprising the injuries weren't more severe. There were broken legs, arms, and ribs, a few concussions, innumurous lacerations, and one case of internal bleeding. There were no broken necks and all seemed to be holding up pretty well.  
  
Then the bus gave slight lurch and an odd hissing sound emitted from somewhere near the gas tank. The group was huddled about 30 feet from the site, backs to wreckage. Clark heard the sound first as he bandaging his English teacher with a torn piece of material from his shirt. He looked about as bad as the bus. Flannel torn in various places from trying to bandage up the worse of them, hair all out of place and boots worn to sole in the spot where'd he stopped the truck. Covered in soot and torn jeans, he was spotted with dried and wet blood. Clark's hands weren't even visible any more in their natural hue, as were his arms, face, or neck. Tying a tight knot, he turned to investigate.  
  
Approaching the mangled scene, the light dimmed slightly around him as a cloud passed in front the sun. He was ten feet away when the gas tank exploded in a vibrant bang, hurling his backward toward the group as they was launched hell for the second time that day.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	7. Chapter Seven

Clark blinked, trying to clear his vision of the brillant lights dancing before them. Hacking slighty, he sucked in sweet breathe to replace that had been sucked out of him. Slowly, he started to rise from the ground when it struck him. He'd just been thrown thirty feet from an explosion in front of about thirty people, three of whom were now racing over to him, expecting to see a concussion, a broken rib, a dead body, something. Clark knew he couldn't explain how he wasn't even scratched, much less how the pavement where he'd hit had an idention of his back and head. The fact he wasn't hurt could be explained away, chalked up to luck or a mistake of the eye. But a dent solid pavement? That was solid proof, and how could the family refute a Clark shaped hole in the ground? The situation was getting more dangerous for him by the second, and all he knew was that the less he was here, the better. Hoping they might not notice that, he sat up and was about to stand when a pair of hands rested on his shoulers, propelling him back down, covering the hole from prying eyes.  
  
"Easy, son, that was quite a fall you just took. Don't be getting up just now. You hit your head pretty hard and you need some medical attention, all right?" The voice surprised Clark in its serenity among the chaos, a slow, steady rythm to it he didn't recall hearing before. It had a slight southern drawl to it, and crispness that proved the person it blonged to was used to being in charge of a situation. Not the type that he needed examining him on the first off. Rotating his neck, he looked up at the man above him.  
  
He looked about fifty, with salt and pepper hair and a bushily mustashe and beard that obscured most of his face. His eyes had a gray, hard tint to them and were wide with concern. Clark could have sworn he saw a gleam of satisfaction glow there for a moment, but it was gone so quickly he couldn't be certain. His face was sprinkled from lines, and his skin looked soft. His face was pale and complexion so fine it was obvious that he made of a point of not spending much time outdoors. Sporting a pair of dingy black jeans, scuffed leather dress shoes, and a once-ruby polo shirt, Clark recognized him from the crash. This man was one of the first he got out from being pinned haphazardly between a seat and the ground, and he'd been helping with first aid the whole time. He had explained himself as the new guidance counciler at the school, and he had enough sense to grab the first aid kit and fire extinguisher from the remenants of the bus. Clark remembered he had medical experience from Vietnam, which is why he'd taken charge of the medical care of the wounded, and now Clark was his focus. He knew from expierence that fooling doctors, nurses, or anyone who knows what they were looking for was a very tricky thing. It took time and attention to detail he never picked up on at times such as these. Feigning injury at an accident site was something he was never any good at.  
  
"Really, I'm okay Mr..." he sighed, blanking on his name. Clark brushed back of his hair with his free arm, studying the man with interest.  
  
"Mr. Jones, son. I'm afraid I didn't get your name either," he said as he pulled out a flashlight to examine Clarks eyes and few bandages to sop up the blood coating him. Clark was so cover in blood that the man hadn't yet realized it wasn't his own, something that Clark wasn't intending for him to find out.  
  
Still pinned to the ground by Mr. Jones assertive arm, Clark offered his name. "Clark Kent, sir, and would you mind letting me up now? I feel fine, really. I wasn't thrown that far and those patients over there need more of your attention than I do. The paramedics will be here soon, but most of them are still-" He stalled in a desperate attempt to waver the man's curiosity. In the distance, sirens were roaring toward them, becoming louder by the moment. Still, the man refused to move and had Clark in the very awkward position where he couldn't see anything aside from the cluster of two other teachers staring anxiously down at him and Mr. Jones flash light beam.  
  
"Clark, I'm helping you right now. You can't honestly tell me you aren't at least sore from that fall and now the ambulence is coming to help the others. Now, follow the light with your eyes."  
  
Obediently, Clark did as the counciler told him. All he wanted right now was to get this guy off his chest and home before the police could ask too many questions. This was a rotten situation to be in after the promise he'd made his father. He liked to leave the scene before anyone arrived or woke up, typically, and now the accident was swarming with officials, all of whom had questions they wanted answered, questions Clark was sure he could.  
  
Solemly, Mr. Jones clicked his mini-light off and snapped Clark from his thoughts. "You don't apprear to have a concussion, but I'd like you to head off the hospital anyway. A few tests will confirm my analysis, they'll patch you up, and you can go home. A few days on the couch and a couple asprin and you'll be okay," Mr. Jones diagonsed and he stood, calling a paramedic over from the swarm around the real victims.  
  
"What kinds of tests?" was Clark's question, uneasy growing in the pit of his stomach. 'Dad is going to kill me!' pounded in his skull.  
  
"X-rays, cat scan, maybe a few blood tests," Mr. Jones replied off-handedly, as though these were nothing but a rotuine to him. Little did he know, they were enough to devistate Clark and unmask his secret to the world. 'Not gunna happen today, sorry,' he decided, recognizing the moment to take action and barreling into it head on.  
  
Lugging himself off the ground, Clark's eyes solidified and became resolute. There was no way on this side of hell this Mr. Jones was going to get him into that ambulence. His face set, he looked at the middle-aged teacher conferring with a medic. "Look, you need all that space for Mrs. Meyer with internal bleeding, Mr. Anderson with about five cracked ribs, Ms. Blanc with that crushed leg of hers, and all of the others. I'm fine. Just let me go home for now. I promise if something happens, I'll head straight to the hospital," drawing in a lungful of air to continue his argument, he noticed his dad coming toward him. They'd seen the parade of rescue vechiles and had come to investigate. 'Perfect,' he thought. "Now my father is here, I'd just like to go take those asprin and crash on the couch like you suggested." Waving his dad over, he saw the grudging look on Mr. Jones face. He was not going for this plan. Opening his mouth to pop any ideas Clark had of fulfulling it, Clark countered before he could get the words out. "And don't worry, the police have my number, they'll call to question me later."  
  
With that, he turned to his father and proclaimed that while Mr. Jones wanted him to go for a ride to Smallville Medical Center, he'd prefer to head home. That he didn't have any real injuries and would just be taking up space on a busy day. Mr. Jones eyes only grew in size and disbielf when Jonathan agreed to the plan, thanked Mr. Jones for his concern, and slipped a caring hand on the small of Clark's back to guide him toward the truck so he could drive him home. Faking a slight limp, Clark went with his father and they drove away in the other pickup his father had driven down, leaving Mr. Jones staring, jaw slightly ajar, with some mild interest and more than few questions that needed to be answered. Clark just hoped they could find some answers before they heard from him again.  
  
As they drove away, two pairs of eyes followed their truck down the path and toward their home. While one turned away rather quickly, the other scanned the area before snapping off a quick succesion of pictures to add to the collection in the woods.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Chloe turned painfully away from Clarks retreating form, knowing that the pain she'd seen in his eyes was partially, if not totally, there because of her. She was certain that staying out of his view had been the right thing to do; it was too soon to approach him, not even 24 hours afterward, and he obviously had enough on his mind. She'd overheard a couple officers discussing what he'd managed that day, and it amazed her just as much as it did them. Even though she was determined to remain unseen among the chaos of flashing lights and ominous clouds, Chloe couldn't resist catching sight of him, if only for a momentary one. Even if he had hurt her, not only had it obviously been unintentional, but she'd backlashed so quickly she didn't stop to think of what the consquences would be. Now things had finally started to get better between them--she'd even found a cup of her favorite coffee he'd brought her last night--and she thought that the could be the friends that both so badly needed. And it had been her that had ruined the effort he was making, her screw up that was so much worse than any of his had ever been. There was major doubt in her mind as to whether she could ever balance the scales for this one.  
  
A short scowl had drawn across her face as she fiddled absent-mindedly with her brand-new digital camera. Her short, perky blonde hair played across her face in the random gusts of wind that blew every once in a while, obsuring her hazel eyes. She was oblivous to the fact that her short, beautiful figure was obviously tormented by her thoughts, and that only one set of eyes seemed to care. Those gray, hard eyes studied her with a flagrant interest that went unnoticed by all. They took in every detial of her being, memorizing her face. 'This girl is someone to keep eye on,' Mr. Jones thought. 'I can help her.' Coming back to herself, Chloe decisively pulled her thoughts away from the debate running around in her head and returned to her work.  
  
Chloe knew that this would be one of the biggest stories of the year here in Smallville, much less the decade in the slow-moving, unbareably conventional town. Many people refused to believe anything the Torch reported since her publication on meteor freaks, and having an exclusive on this would help build credibility up again, possibly even getting her out of the principals black books. She sighed, snapped off a few half-hearted photos and trudged on to fire off another round before anyone noticed her. This might have been the story of the millenia, but her thoughts kept flying off into Clarkdom, and every time she did a new wave of remorse, sorrow, and any number of feelings would splash over her in a wave, threatening to wash her way. Lana was already suspicious and Chloe doubted how long she would buy the sudden, unexplainable fit of depression bit she'd concoted on the car ride home last night. She knew by Monday any illusion Lana had of believing her would be totaled when she saw Clark in a similar state. 'At least I don't have to talk to her 'til then,' she thought, trying to be optimistic but failing miserably.  
  
By now, the skies previous threat of rain had become iminent, causing the whole scene to become anxious and accelerate. Chloe fed off the vibe from the rest of crowd as a sudden chill ran up her spine. Something wasn't right here, she realized, there was something way off with this scene, as though it had been tampered with and everyone knew it. She'd been to accidents before, and they all had this gloomy air to them, but today it felt as though this were just an omen. Chloe had the strange, foreboding feeling that this wasn't an accident, and somehow, much worse was on the way. Shrugging it off, she turned her focus back to her digital camera, taking two more shots of Clarks twisted truck and a few of this weird depression in the ground she'd found. It had a familiar shape, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it remindered her off. No one else had noticed it, and Chloe hoped selfishly it might stay that way. Glancing to the side, she shoved the camera in her pocket and hurried off to the darkening fields.  
  
Whatever was off in the air today, it was giving her the creeps. And she wanted to know why.  
  
Though it had only been a hour since Clark had left home, it felt more like an eternity to him. Rarely did he ever feel so immensly exhausted and terrified as he did now. As soon as he had stepped over the threshold, he had edged by his mother into the living room and plopped down on the ancient blue plaid couch, staring into the blazing flame incased in the worn brick fireplace. It was mezmorizing, and Clark knew that he could spend hours there, just staring into its infinte energy and letting time wash over him. The room was comfortable and cozy, with its pictures on the mantel, books on the side tables, rich color scheme and tv ushered into a corner as though added as an afterthought by the inhabitants. The curtains framed the window, a portal to the outside world that seemed like an alternate reality from Clarks view on the couch. Out there, you could get hurt, be let down. Out there, pain was real, and even the best of people could unleash it on you like a blood thirsty pitbull. Nothing was sacred or safe, nothing certain. But here, this was a haven from reality. This was the opitamy of certainity where serenity was assured, and Clark wanted nothing more than to sink into all it offered and forget the outside world existed.  
  
But his parents joined him shortly, prodding him from the luxary of his day dream. He heard their gentle, calm voices, asking what had happened. Clark knew had to answer and that letting it all out would help, but he wished that for a brief moment, he could just be a normal kid whose parents would rejoice over fact that he had saved lives rather than worry that someone might find out how.  
  
So he told them, carefully choosing his words to down play the events. He answered their questions devoid of emotion, offering any suggestion he had as to an explaination along the way. Naturally, they comforted him and told him he was right; there was no way he could have just let those people die. But even they were overwhelmed by the blast that had thrown Clark, the dent in the ground, and not least of all by the sudden interest of a counciler no less. Over the last two days, life had become more complicated then any of them had ever thought possible. They were caught up a very dangerous game with everything at stake, and they couldn't afford to lose.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	9. Chapter Nine

When Monday reared it's ugly head at last, Clark felt like he just wanted to pull the covers over his head and suffiently beat his alarm clock to a plup. However either option, while both thoroughly appealing, would only succeed in making his problems worse. 'Like that's possible,' the thought echoing in his groggy mind. So grudgingly, Clark gently clicked the alarm off and heaved himself out of bed before his mother could climb the stairs and snatch the covers away--a much faster and colder way to rouse him.  
  
Rubbing his eyes and stiffling a yawn, he stepped into the hall and down to the bathroom. Though not yet fully awake, he pulled the shower door closed and pumped the water on, letting the drops beat on him with an extreme amount of water pressure as the warmth flooded through him. Gently, the steam crept over the mirror and the heat slowly washed the leftover sleep out of his senses, pleasantly waking him without a jarring effect. After a brief ten minutes of this ecstacy, he sighed, bracing himself to leave the comfort of the heated bathroom and face the sneaking chill in the air of the house. After hastily toweling himself dry, he did just that.  
  
Completing his normal normal routine, Clark vaulted himself down the stairs, greeted by the wafting smell of bacon and eggs. He seated himself and hmm'ed his approval along with his dad, greedily devouring the massive portion Martha lay out in front of him.  
  
"Slow down there, Clark, that's all I've got this morning!" Martha warned with a smile twitching on her lips, warrenting only a grunt in reply. Granting the clock a sidelong glance and doing the same with the window, she stated, "Never mind, you don't have time. The bus is coming down the road just now and you can't afford to miss it." That got his attention. Heaping one last fork load in his mouth, he kissed his mothers cheek, slapped Jonathan on the back, and scurried out the door. He wasn't fast enough to miss the call of "No powers!" from the kitchen, a jolting reminder in itself.  
  
'Today, it's just a normal day and you have to be just a normal, everyday guy. So act that way,' he lectured himself silently, sliding up the bus stop just in time to meet it there. Pulling himself up the stairs, he climb around the driver with a friendly nod and made his way to the back of the bus determined not to let anything bother him or let on a hint of the thoughts crossing his mind. Smiling to Pete, he was about to slid into the seat next to him when Chloe's head appeared from below, a triumpant grin playing across her lips and an obviously dropped pencil in her hand. Opening her mouth to say somthing to Pete, she noticed Clark standing in the aisle, the grin fading away as he dropped into the seat behind them. 'Okay, maybe this isn't going to be as easy as I thought.'  
  
Chloe had inwardly sighed the moment she'd seen Clark. This is what she'd been avoiding, seeing him again, and now the moment was here and it was even more awkward than she'd imagined. Which was not an easy feat, considering she'd spent all weekend building her deciet up in her mind, and with her wild imagination, played out every scene from Clark refusing to look at her to beating her up. She knew the latter wouldn't happen, but in a disturbing sort of way, she knew it would make feel better. She wanted Clark to make her pay for what she'd done to him, but it was apparent he had to take the damned high road. 'The silent treatment is more his style anyway. He's quite and mysterious enough as it is,' she told herself, cursing that she hadn't expected this.  
  
While Pete greeted Clark, obviously unnerved by the tension between the two, she murmurred a nearly unaudible hello. Clark nodded curtly in response, the expression on his face and look in his eyes mirroring hers with an uncanny likeness. Shifting his gaze between the two, Pete stared, finally settling it on her. "Okay, I give up. What's the deal here?" he finally enquired.  
  
Clark and Chloe shared a look, his silent method of telling her to deal with it, he wasn't going to. He gazed out the window at the crops flying by, asking himself why he hadn't just decided to run and avoid this confrontation all together. 'No powers remember,' he jeered himself, frustrated by the whole curcumstance.  
  
Cursing herself, she responded to her friends question. "I, uh, I mean, we, well, we kinda had a fight. And I kinda caused it," she explained, visibly jeered by the question and uncomfortable with the topic.  
  
"Riight, okay," Pete said, joining Clark in his search of the fields. "I'm going to assume it's best not to ask for now?"  
  
"Correctamundo," Chloe replied, suddenly fascinated by the scuffed floor.  
  
And that was how the ride to school basically went. Silence between three of the best friends around, and a lot of avoided gazes. 'So this is how he's dealing with it?' she wondered, 'Silence? Not less than I deserve, but still...' Reaching school was divine, a chance for her to split from the scene and get to higher ground. Namely, the Torch office, her haven from all things agonizing. And today, that thing was herself.  
  
Walking into school, Clark was greeted by a lot of high fives and many pats on the back. Evidently, the whole school was abuzz with the news of the bus accident. Ordinarily, attention made him nervous and flustered. Today, it was almost unbearable, rehashing the anger and annoyance at himself for drawing attention at a time like this. In fact, Pete seemed to be the only in dark on the whole incident, treating Clark's hero-worship greetings with a raised eyebrow. "You're just full of secrets today, aren't you?"  
  
"Oh, I sort of helped a bus-load of teachers after an accident on Saturday. Spent Sunday dodging reporters," was the only response he supplied, looking at the ground and speeding off toward his locker, making Pete jog to keep up, though not deterring him in the least.  
  
"'Sort of', as in single-handedly saving the day because of that Clark Kent luck of yours?"  
  
"Yeah, that kind of 'sort of'. The kind of 'sort of' that means the guidance counciler is all over this one," Clark said, unamused by the whole situation. Unlike Pete, who was now chuckling.  
  
"Nice, Clark, very nice. A physcologist intersted in you. That's just what you need."  
  
"You're not kidding. Especially not after Chloe and what I found in the wreckage she left me," Clark responded cryptically, snapping Pete from his giggles and turning him stone-faced in a second. There was a bitter urgency in his tone that grabbed Pete's attention, setting off in his inner alarm bells at full volume.  
  
"How bad is it?" A frown crept and stuck on his face, making him lower his voice and glance almost unperceptively to either side.  
  
"Bad enough I can't say here."  
  
Pete frowned, not liking the situation. "Lunch?" he said hopefully, dying to know what was up that could be so bad. At this rate, his imagination would keep him occupied all day, a small dose of dread settling in his stomach  
  
"Not at school. My loft, 4:00. Deal?" Clark's face was so serious that the grin that spread across it seemed alien to the mood that had claimed the pair. "I'll beat you at basketball afterward, if you're in the losing mood," he teased.  
  
Smiling again, Pete accepted the challenge, the dread in his gut slowly ebbing away. The boys departed to opposite sides of the school with a high five the only signal of good-bye between them.  
  
From down the hall, Mr. Jones watched Clark walk off. Excusing himself from his tedious conversation with Mrs. Appleton, he set off down the hall after the teen, refusing to loose sight of him in the crowd despite the alarming number of toes he trod on along the way. It took him all of a minute to catch up with Clarks long, sure strides and break him from his thoughts. 'I wonder what's so captivating,' he mused, deciding that this afternoon, he'd have to find out. He was accustomed to knowing what others were thinking, even if they had no intention of telling him. 'They all break in the end,' he thought happily. 'Clark Kent is not different from one anyone else.'  
  
More action on the way soon.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	10. Chapter Ten

Heading back from lunch, Clark and Pete stopped by their lockers and continued to chatter away about basball, the chosen thread of lunchtime conversation. Pete was still plagued by thoughts of what had Clark so wound up, while Clark continued to subtly establish he couldn't speak of it and change the subject to lighter topics. Still, Pete carried the conversation, deciding it was best not to let his friend settle into his thoughts too deeply. So when Pete reversed after the quick stop for books, he wasn't exactly surprised that Clark was heading in the opposite direction.  
  
"Umm, Clark? Chem is is this way," he prodded gently, pausing to wait for his buddy to catch up.  
  
A dark look slid into place in Clarks eyes, though he kept the rest of his demeanor light. "Actually, I thought I mentioned it at lunch. I have a meeting with the guidance counciler, Mr. Jones, today. He explained that since he's new, he wanted to get to know some of the students. And since we've already met..." he paused, knowing Pete could fill in the blanks. Then, as quickly as the look had grown in his gaze, his eyes brightened and became less conspicous. Pete would never have realized anything was up with his man Clark if he hadn't so much as told him. It struck him abruptly how good of an actor Clark was. He may have been uncomfortable lying outright, but by the he acted, you never would have noticed that he had dark circles under his eyes. And only a good friend examining his face would have seen the stressed, overworked, slightly crumpled aura around him. He looked doleful, Pete decided, under close examination. It dawned on him how many times Clark must have looked that way with no one noticing, probably even his parents. Sombering at the thought, he adapted a strained smile.  
  
"Still after you, huh? Good luck with that," he said, supplying a short wave before taking his leave. As he walked down the hall, he could have sworn he heard Clark's voice grumble, "You're telling me."  
  
Slightly perturbed at the fact Mr. Jones still had an interest, Clark was determined to make him lose it. He had enough on his mind without someone trying to pry into it, especially not a peculiar old man who'd already seen too much. Especially not now. But Clark had practice at acting, at looking easily out the window and changing the subject. He'd just have to employ that skill here and hope it didn't arouse too much more attention.  
  
Lost in thought, he didn't realize it until he was knocking softly on the cool, blue door frame to Mr. Jones office where he was. Hearing consent to enter, Clark did just that, slipping lightly through the doorframe and closing the door with hardly a noise. Turning on his heel, he took a seat at one of the rich leather chairs in front of a grand, mahogany desk, impressed by the quality of the furniture immediatly. 'Obviously not supplyed by the school,' he decided. Glancing through the rest of the small office, he noted various healthy, spiky ferns littered throughout the space, and a bookshelf of beautiful, darkly stained wood to match the desk. Lined up with a manic perscion, he gazed at the numerous volumes on the adolecent mind. Subconciously, he softened his eyes and mentally bookmarked that fact that there were various books on hypnosis and paranormal activity, not to mention the titles on unconvential methods of healing buried deeply on the back of the bottom shelf. He tensed at the thought of them, scanning the rest of the room so as not show interest in the bookshelf. Personally, he'd read most of the books he had and didn't want to get a conversation on them started, knowing that he might accidently show his interest in the topics represented there and that it wouldn't lead to good things. The only other piece of furniture in the room was off to the far right side, where a high-tech coffee maker sat on a high-end table, housed on either side by a few glazed, red cups, coffee paraphernalia, and numerous books that he was certain were just scholarly props. Mr. Jones credentials were displayed lovingly on the wall in laquered frames. If anything it looked more like a movie set the much beloved teacher or highly professional therapist might reside in. And one thing that struck Clark was the meticulousness of it. As though no one actually used this office, it was just for show. 'Maybe it is,' the thought dawning on him.  
  
Post was too long! Here's the rest of it...  
  
Finally, he settled his look on Mr. Jones himself, sipping a cup of coffee of joe near the door. 'He belongs here,' Clark decided, 'he fits the role.' Entirely unnerved by the feeling of the room, Clark realized Mr. Jones had been staring at him the whole time. He had the steady sort of gaze, penetrating without being probing, the look of a person who already knew all the secrets Clark strived to keep to himself. On edge as Clark was, his whole body unconsiously tensed when he noticed it, but still he remained in control of himself. Carefully, he spun back around and set his rusack down, studying the blood-red curtains with an interest. Catiously, he greeted the man behind his back, without turning. "Nice place. Shall we get started?"  
  
"Why don't we?" was the reply as Mr. Jones set the cup down on a coaster absently, strolled around and plopped down in his plush leather chair, obviously enjoying himself. "Well Mr. Kent, how are you today?"  
  
"Fine. Just fine." The words came out breezy and quick, settling Clark to hear his own voice. "I'm missing chem though, so I was hoping this wouldn't take too long?"  
  
Appraising the dark-eyed,  
  
handsome teen for a moment, he nodded. "I understand. You don't want to miss class. I just wanted to get a chance to properly introduce myself and get to know you a little better. We met under unusal circumstances and I didn't want it to inhibit our relationship."  
  
Obviously, the words were meant to be soothing, from the tone in the man's voice, but Clark knew better. This was his round-about way of bringing up the accident. He'd seen all different approaches before and this was his least favorite. Disgruntled Mr. Jones was going to waste his time, Clark decided to take the blunt way in and force the subject open, giving him the upper hand in the conversation. "I meant to ask how you were after that. I know that you weren't hurt like some of the others, but you did seem a bit shaken after the crash."  
  
Peering at him again, Mr. Jones leaned back in chair and interlaced his fingers, setting them on his lap. The look omnipotence about him again, he replied in a measured voice. 'A little too even,' Clark thought, hoping he wasn't just being paranoid. "Yes, I'm fine. Just a few cuts and scratches, and a little bump on the head. You're help was much appreciated there, I know. The teachers are all thankful you stopped."  
  
Not liking the turn in the conversation, Clark replied, just as even, face just as unyeilding. "Glad to. I'm just glad knowing everyone is going to be okay. After all, your medical care carried a few of them through until the paramedics arrived. You mentioned you were in Vietnam, I believe, and that's where you got your skill. Is that right?" Though the transition was not quite as subtle as he would have liked, he knew it's how the conversation would have to be. This man would pick up on every turn he took, reguardless of the pleasantries he made to slip his notice.  
  
"Correct. I helped in an army hospital as an orderly. I gained extensive triage experience there." Staring. Probing. Searching.  
  
"Useful. It sure did help on Saturday. I didn't quite get the full story while I was there. What was a group of teachers doing on a bus back from Metropolis on a Saturday anyway? Everyone seemed to be in a dark mood, even for a traffic accident," Clark said, letting a small smile eclipse his face.  
  
'Persceptive,' Mr. Jones noted. 'Intelligent, too.' There was light in Clarks eyes he liked, a confidence in his stride that wasn't arrogant but sure. Rare for a teenage boy, especally one like him, with the build of a football player. He seemed to have many friends, from what he could tell, and he seemed to naturally draw people to him, though his real friends were few. Popular among peers but not as a friend or through rumors. Intersting. "There was a conference on teaching methods there, but it was changed at the last moment. We weren't informed."  
  
"Oh, okay. Pretty rough day then, huh? I'm sure everyone was grumpy. I wouldn't like to waste precious freetime on a trip to Metropolis if I didn't have to. Will you go back? When was it moved to?" Clark knew he was guiding the conversation, and he liked the power of it, though he was careful not to alert the Harvard graduate know it. If he noticed anything, he would probably just assume he didn't even know what he'd done. Clark was good at looking ignorant.  
  
"Next weekend. Orginally we were scheduled to return, but I sincerely doubt after recent events we will attend." Mr. Jones was, in fact, well aware that Clark was leading the conversation. He didn't mind though, and figured that it was natural for the boy. He seemed to be a born leader, and he would likely do that with everyone.  
  
Clark knew that counciler was paying close attention to his word choice, so he was pushing a persona at him. He decided on the overworked farmboy, in case he noticed the tiredness in his movements. Now that he was here, Clark knew he'd made the right choice. "That's good. I don't think any of you will eager to get on a bus again." His eyes unconciously darted to the clock. Fifteen minutes had passed and the second hand seemed to be just edging by, filling the silence with a blantant tick, tick. "Well, Mr. Jones, if there's nothing else..." he rose, extending his hand and scooping up his books from the floor.  
  
"Actually, Mr. Kent, there is. I just wanted to check in and make sure you were feeling alright after Saturday. I know that those type of events can be rather tramatic on a person, and on top of that, you were thrown quite a way. You were limping Saturday, but you seem better now."  
  
'Damn.' He was forced to settle back in his seat, he'd lost the lead of conversation, and now he was going to have to lie. A smooth smile slid in place. "Yep, doing great. As long as I can get my chores done, I'm good. A little brusied maybe, but it wasn't as far as you seem to think. You must not have seen it straight, what after hitting your head in the wreck. And really, I don't have any issues with the crash, mentally I mean. Though I do appreciate your concern." It was all rehersed, lines he'd mentally played through his all lunch hour. He hoped it didn't show.  
  
"Certainly. And I suppose it's not your first time, after all. You're a bit of legend, around here. Infamous for your various saves, though you are notedly quiet on the subject. Avoiding interviews, saying very little to the police, mostly keeping to yourself and your close friends. You shy away from the spotlight, one might say. Though you've enough to earn a place in it, Lord knows." He fed Clark a look, definitly probing this time. "They must have affected you in some way."  
  
It felt like an ice cube had slipped down his throat, settling in his belly and freezing his insides. 'So this is what you were after.' His interior flinched momentarily at the landslide of sublte accusations, but his exterior remained the same, no sign of hesitation present. In fact, he let one of his famous Kent smiles settle on his lips, as though this was all thoroughly amusing to him, something he'd heard before. "Yeah, I guess I do help people quite a bit. Just luck, usually, that I'm at the scenes of accidnets. Haven't figured out if it's good or bad luck yet." The wattaged settled down a bit, giving him a more sober look. "But I've dealt with those feelings. And I'm just a private person. I shouldn't have to be recognized for helping people. The act is enough. I simply don't need that recognition from people. Don't want it, don't need it." Glancing again at the clock, he rose from his seat. "Now really, this period is nearly over and I can't miss my English exam next period. If you'll excuse me." He stuck out his hand, shaking Mr. Jones' palm with a sincere jolt, scooping his books and bag off the ground and moving quickly but not too fast out of the office.  
  
'Interesting character,' Mr. Jones thought. 'I don't buy a word he spoke though.' Thoughtfully, he recalled the conversation and sat back, eyes closed, meditating. Despite Clarks effort that noramlly would have deterred even his parents, Mr. Jones was only more intrigued by Clark. And he vowed to find out what he was hiding.  
  
Now...thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	11. Chapter Eleven

Rap, rap, rap. A firm knock invaded his thoughts. A welcome interruption, as he had spent forty-five minutes in the same position and had not yet encountered a single relevation, a single thought he hadn't already been thinking. Sighing away the trend of his thoughts, he cleared his mind, sat straight up and caught a glimpse of the clock. It was 1:00. 'Ah, Ms. Sullivan,' he realized, grabbing his luke-warm cup o' joe and slipped into place behind the door. Mr. Jones liked to guage a person's reaction to his 'lair,' as he called it. Only to himself though. 'Wouldn't want to give the wrong impression, now would we?' Calling her in, he studied her, finding that one's reaction to a new place often betrayed what one hoped to hide. The cup in his hand merely a prop, barely remembered, he focused directly on her.  
  
Layered, short, blonde hair gave her a perky apperance, but also framed her face beautifully. Sharp, green, intelligent eyes were the draw of her face, with a definite glimmer in them. He'd noticed it before, at the accident scene. When she'd been confronted by a young policeman while trying to gain entrance, she'd hidden it, pulling a mask over her bright eyes. It made her look more plain, stupider, more flirtatious to be playing the part of a cookie-cutter, I-wanna-be-popular, aren't-I-so-damn-cute type. And consquently, more attractive to the young man. After a small bit of convincing a few well shed tears at the scene, she was in. Afterwards, Chloe obviously didn't think that anyone was looking at her. It was then he'd noticed it, her eyes had been soulful, full of sadness and pain and loneliness, vauge and fairly unaware of her surroundings. The look of being lost. He'd recognized it at once. In fact, he'd been seeing a lot it these days, in Clark's eyes, when he thought no one was looking. Any interest he'd had in her before had only intensified when he noticed the awkward, stuttered hello the two had shared in the hall. Neither had bothered to hide the pain that filled their eyes on sight of eachother, though neither let it affect their demeanors at all. Her still perky, him still intense and happy. He'd decided they were both actors, not of the stage, but of the world, riddled with secrets and holding on strong despite. 'The most fascinating people are,' he thought, and to run into the two interesting specimens of the variety he wanted to find on his first week was pure luck. Luck he wasn't prepared to waste.  
  
Her reaction was much like Clark's, as was the visit. Awe in her presence at first glance of the space, then suspicion, then a veil slide over eyes as she told the counciler just what he wanted to hear. Full of good excuses and nice acting that would have fooled almost everyone. Everyone but him, it seemed.  
  
She'd said she was fine, that while she was a bit off, it was only because of fatigue. When pressed, she said she didn't like to admit it, but some news stories really affected her. They made her really feel for the people and moved her. It wasn't good for a journalist, she proclaimed, and that the bus accident had been like that for her. She was getting better, though, knowing that everyone was alright. How was he doing, she wanted to know.  
  
Again, he didn't believe a word that came out of her mouth. But he refused to call her on it. 'Giving me enough to cover her in case she slipped and I saw pain and make her seem human, but not enough to need mental help. Clever.' That she certainly was, he noticed it from the first off. Smart enough to come up with a good excuse for everything. Just like someone else he knew.  
  
To him, it was remarkable how much she was like Clark. Both so shut off from the world, by choice, but so lonely because of it. They expressed themselves in their eyes, but could hide it when they felt threatened. Even more incredible was the fact that they were friends, yet felt they couldn't even confide in each other. Usually people like that recognized each other and avoided them, until they were certain they could be trusted. That type, they hid themselves and then revealed their pain to similar people they felt they could trust. But not Clark and Chloe. Perhaps, he realized, what they need most is each other, yet they didn't see that there. Not the similiarites, not the pain, not the hope for trust. At least, not any more.  
  
For now, they were both exceeding interesting. He'd continue sessions with them, gain a piece of trust, learn all he could. Granted, he already knew a considerable amount about each, but it was his mission to find out more. He'd find out all he could and then take his next step. If all went according to plan, it wouldn't be long before he could work his whammy on Clark and Chloe and find out if what he suspected was true, and what their secrets were at that.  
  
'Patience is a virtue,' he told himself. 'Best be in command of yours. This is going to take a while.'  
  
A little boring, I know, but provides some insight and backstory I had to add in for later. More character action soon, I promise!  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

Awkard but determined, Clark steeled himself and walked straight into the Torch office. He knew Chloe would be there, and sure enough, she sat typing away on her favorite terminal, engrossed in some editorial or another. He was about to clear his throat to draw her away, but remembering the last time, he thought better of it. Slipping over to her with super-human grace, he lowered himself into the chair and granted her with a small smile she hadn't seen in a week. 'Not since that night,' she thought, as she returned it, incredulous but not unwelcoming. Thrilled at the fact he'd finally approached her. She looked startling in red today, black denium hugging her hips in all the right places and hair unstyled, as usual, but still radiating an almost tangible sadness when left to her own devices. Clark seemed sucked into his own little world, sunk into his thoughts on what he wanted to say, not bothering to hide the gears working behind his eyes from her. It never worked unless she really wanted it to, and even then it was iffy. Chloe was too preceptive to be drawn in to his lies if she didn't want to believe them. It was what had made her so dangerous to begin with.  
  
"Chloe, we have to talk about what happened. You know we do." Clark blew some air out of his cheeks, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. 'Pensive,' she decided, her writers mind a constant account descibing life around her, colored with her words more then her perspective. It was like she was writing the story of her life perpetually, and it gave her an excellent memory for faces and what people were feeling at certain times, like the expressions were cataloged on notecards in her minds eye. Recalling Clark's face that night, the intensity of the pain she'd caused, she felt relieved he was willing to finally speak of it instead of pretending it never happened. Bursting with the things she'd been thinking since, she started to reveal it all to him.  
  
"I know, Clark. I want to, desperately. I need--" He hushed her, not rudely, not interrupting, really, just quieting her urgently. There was a look playing in his eyes that made her see it, if it wasn't already resonating around in her mind from his tone. She watched him, interested and startled.  
  
"Not here, Chloe. Come with me now?" It was a question, not an order, and Chloe agreed. Whatever it was he needed to say, it was important.  
  
"Alright. Lets go." Her green eyes glowed with questions, all unanswered, none of which she dare ask. 'Best to let him do the talking.' Her whole attitude was one of immense interest, though even that couldn't conquer her joy over the fact Clark had reached out. Still, that damned common sense in the back of her brain piped up, scolding her and telling her it was most likely bad news. The kind that sold her beloved news papers and that she least wanted to hear.  
  
Following Clark down the hall, he held her hand protectively as he steered her through the empty halls. Something he'd never done except at the dance that night of the twisters, their first and only date. It seemed more tender and possive now though, but she ushered the thoughts away, chalking it up to imagination. He lead her around to his car, sat her down, and kept his glancing jumping from the road, to the rear view mirror, to her, with a strange light she couldn't place in them.. Clark parked at a recluse part of the woods on the northside of Smallville, a part she'd never seen. Silently, he nodded for her to wait, as he jumped out of the car and pulled her door open for her, helping her out gentlemanly. Clark seemed odd to her somehow, different. 'It's the way he's acting. As though, he's interested in me? Nah, not Clark.' Again she threw the thoughts out, wondering what had brought them on.  
  
Then leading her over to a tree a few feet away, Clark swept her into a kiss. A passionate one at that. She was surprised, tried to pull away, but he backed her up against a tree. Pulling out of the kiss, she was stunned. It was familiar but distinctly seperate from how Clark usually was. This time, there was a real, raw feeling there. A kind of longing for her. She'd felt it surge through her as their lips had touched, her blonde hair tickling his chin as she leaned on the balls of her feet into his body. There was no need for it, he was practically holding her up as it was, handing crawling down to the small of her back, settling there.  
  
When they parted, she breathed out, astonishingly giddy from the hormones rushing through her ears, drowning out her senes. Yes, the kiss, his touch, it was all as she remembered, but there was a hunger behind the action that was never there before. A sort of intimatacy she'd never felt before, as though they were old souls, rekindling a long-lived passion. And for a second, she was lost in the moment, the thoughts in her head long gone and a craving for more coarsed through her veins. Every feeling she'd had for him returned tenfold. If she'd thought she was in love before, she was wrong. She'd only known a shallow pool of feelings and heartbreak. Not like this. This was real. And it was with Clark.  
  
But even in heaven, reality has to catch up. And unfortunately, it did.  
  
Chloe was catching her breathe as Clark bent down a bit and whispered in her ear. Expecting sweet nothings, she got zilch of the kind. Just a slow shiver up and down her spine. "Relax," he soothed lustfully, "we're being watched. But don't look now, in a minute you can. A man in a dark red jeep has been following us for fourteen miles. Might be nothing, but I can't risk it. What I've got to say is too important. So make this look real, alright? Please?"  
  
Chloe's heart skipped a beat, disapointed but realizing it was for the best. Clark and her would never work out, and she thought she'd been over him for months now. But that kiss...So animalistic and full of depth and mystery. It had brought everything back. Drawing back up, he held her close, and she looked deep in his eyes. There was sparkle there, something that had been drawn out by the kiss. Something she knew she'd seen but couldn't place. Nodding with a wide smile, she decided to enjoy it. Her slight frame leaned coyly against the curve of his hip, and she drew herself up to reach his lips. It had the same, raw, uninhibited power behind it. Dragging the feeling out, the two kissed, playing off each other and their brief gazes rose in intensity, penetrating each others souls and hearts, pure in bliss the two hung in a stich in time. There was an attraction here, she felt it reverbertating within her, even as Clark glanced around and finally pulled back after about ten minutes. Suddenly, it hit her where she'd seen the sparkle in his eye. It had been there after they'd last kissed, at the dance. Something she'd never noticed when he looked at Lana. 'Just at me.' She inwardly grinned like a fiend.  
  
His smile was the most charming, happiest expression she'd ever seen him wear. For a moment, he was just Clark. The world was off his shoulders and he looked almost dizzy with feelings. But it flashed away and he took her hand, caressing her soft, silky cheek for a second before pulling her off a ways to a clearing in the woods. "It's safe here," he explained, seating her on a log and glancing around. Soft light filtered through the trees, illuminating the scene of lush trees and incredible natural essence around them. Beautiful as it was, the scenary was lost on Chloe. She was too preoccupied with looking at Clark. Though he was his old, back-to-business self, there was no denying the look in his eye. He'd felt the deep, soulful connection too. It was what she'd seen in his wide smile. And it was enough.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

A red jeep slid stealthly down the road, about a half mile past where Clark had pulled off with Chloe. The driver hopped out and walked around back, opening the trunk under pretense of getting out a jack to prop up the car for a supposedly blow tire before slipping over to the side nearest the forest. Hunkered down near the rear wheel, protected from view by the dense metal frame, the driver popped opened a silver utility case and lugged a high-powered camera out, assembling it with a certainty only earned after years of practice. The hands scuttled up and down the surface, inserting pieces here and parts there, before it was completed. Gracefully, the driver hauled it up on his shoulder and focused the camera easily, peering down the long barrel half a mile away. There, he saw the young Kent kid frisking a young woman with blonde hair he recognized from the school, his best territory. In fact, now was the first time he'd followed Kent beyond there, knowing all too well his powers of observation. He'd almost rooted him out numerous times, and he was a professional with years of training under his belt, though by the look of him, no one would have guessed it. Shooting a few pictures of the two, Kent pulled the girl playfully into the forest, moving deeper than his camera could see. 'This was not in the job description,' the man sighed, unmounting the camera and returning it the trunk. Now, he had to move onto more important matters that snapping a few shots of his prey.  
  
Hoping back into the jeep, the energetic, middle-aged man pulled back out on to the road trying to pass as a freeway, this time going toward Kent's truck. Peering out the tinted window, he saw Kent leading his little friend, Sullivan, even deeper into the woods. 'Not a good sign,' he thought, realizing they were only a half mile from his uni-bomber style cabin that housed all his research on the kid. He could, under no circumstances, find his nook. Or had Kent found him out already and was going to show his reporter friend? Or had he simply taken her there for a little private romp in the woods, away from the prying eyes of parents? After all, his were the prying type, that he knew. Seeing no sense in taking chances, he waited till the road cleared and pulled into the woods half a mile down the road.  
  
Hiding his jeep in the wilderness, the man pulled a black case from under the rear seat, placing it lightly on the passengars side. Popping it open, he gazed lovingly at his prized rifle, his favorite baby for off-the-books, clandestine work. Just as skilled with a rifle as a camera, he set up the gun. Fingering through the case, he snapped open a bullet case and fingered a line of normal bullets back, revealing a row of tranquillizers, ranging from lethal to five minute sleepers. He grabbed four tranq darts, two red and two green. The green were metoerite tipped, special for this job, provided by his employer. They held a nearly lethal combination of sedative, usually reserved for elephants and particually fiesty tigers. While at first he had doubted their nessacity and tried to refuse them, he now knew from his in-depth study of Kent that he was no normal human being. He hoped the little bit of juice in these pellets would be enough to take down the young man, even if they could take down elephants. The red, however, were for the girl. Not lethal in any aspect, they'd only put her out for about ten minutes, more than enough time to make his get away. With practiced and down right unnerving easy, he loaded them into the gun and cocked it as a slow, malevolent smile crept into place. This, while not as thrilling as hunting for the kill, was better than any action he'd had all month. There was no doubt in his mind. 'This,' the shameless grin upping in wattage on the now loathsome, twisted face, 'this is going to be fun.'  
  
The driver moved with agility one typically saw on a jungle cat, that was totally out of place in his current exterior, as he stepped soundlessly through the forest into place. It would have been obvious to most casual observer he had done this before, many times, and had enjoyed it. There were none, however, as his speed and percision of his movements failed to announce his presence to even the watchful hawks above. He was a creature of the shadows; this was where he worked best, and any enemy he had crossed had not lived long enough to remember that fact. This particular mission was among the simplest he'd done, and if it hadn't paid so well, he would never had taken it. Stealthly, he stalked on, settled in the forest in the deepest shadown he could find, Kent in his sights as he gently exerted force on the trigger biding his time until he could be sure to hit his target, right on, both shots. 'Three...forward a little...two...to the right now...one...easy, stay there, stop that damn pacing...one...alright...NOW!'  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Clark paced, back and forth, forth and back, a look of total concentration slathered across his face as he seemed to search the very air in front of him for the answer to whatever question was zooming across his mind. In fact, Chloe was certain that he had all together forgotten she was even there, four feet away. Not that it bothered her. She too was off in her own dimension at the moment, a million questions racing through her stream of thoughts, each demanding her undivided attention. 'What the hell is going on here?' was the one that got it, and if Clark wasn't so out of it, she might have asked him. He looked dazed, though, and she noticed his eyes seemed a little glazed over, and it looked as though he were wearing a hole in the forest floor...literally. 'Not a good time,' she decided. 'Wait until he talks first.'  
  
Clark apparently wasn't as far gone as Chloe had surmised, however, as all it took to snap him out of his mindset was the pulling of a trigger, twice, in quick succession. Turning, he glared through the trees and forest in the direction of the sound, looking through it all to see two bullets, aimed straight at him, peeling through the air.  
  
Now moving faster than the bullets, instinct took over as he braced himself to catch them, not stealing a good glance at them until they had entered the clearing. It became obvious that they were, in fact, not bullets, but tranqs, and even worse, they emitted a soft, pale green light from their tips. A light he was not eager to expose to his outstreched hand. Comprehension dawning on him, Clark forced himself to twist out their path, but by that time, even Clark could have moved fast enough to fall free of them.  
  
Diving toward Chloe, the first of the bullets almost grazed his side, the point just baring miss him as it flew into a tree a few feet back. The second hit its mark, right in his abdoman and releasing its venom into his already crawling skin. Jerked back into reality, Clark slammed into the ground in front of Chloe. Managing a quick, "Get out of here, now," he struggled with staying awake. "My truck..." he whispered, zonking out, leaving a stunned Chloe behind.  
  
As stunned as she was, Chloe was nobody's fool. Though a Metropolis girl at heart, she'd lived in Smallville long enough to know that if anyone, especially Clark, gave her that kind of warning, leaving might be the only way to get out alive. Stiffling a scream that died in her throat, she hit the ground, barracading herself behind Clark's body. Franticlly picking through his pockets, she grabbed his keys. 'Guess he wasn't kidding about that guy following us,' she mused, pausing for a moment, wondering if she really should leaving Clark alone with whoever had knocked him out.  
  
The splitering wood and bullet holes in the tree behind her made up her mind for her.  
  
Pulling back his gun and stowing himself behind a tree, the man silently cursed himself with every swear in the book. He'd underestimated Kent, and now he was starting to wonder if the one elephant tranq he'd gotten in the boy would hold him for long. 'Damn,' he thought, racing full throttle for his truck. The last thing he needed right now was for that reporter, Sullivan, getting his plate number. Even worse, now Clark knew he was coming. 'How the hell did the kid manage to jump like that before the bullet even got there?' he wondered, swiping the plates off the truck, grabbing his gun and camera and stalking off into the woods.  
  
'Damn.'  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Chloe leaned on her elbows, listening for all she was worth. While scared out of her ever-loving mind, she realized that now was not the time to loose her cool. Clark was lying half-dead, face down in the mud beside her while a lunatic was firing off rounds at the both of them. 'Hunting accident?' she wondered, and eerie calm enveloping her, her mind flicking through possiblities. 'It has to be an accident, right? Who'd shoot at us? A school reporter and a farm boy for godsake.' Suddenly, a thought struck her. 'Or are they shooting because of what he was going to tell me...Does Clark know more than I think? Is he more than he appears? He did kiss me because he thought we were being followed...Apparently, he was right.'  
  
She'd often puzzled over the mystery of Clark. His constant appearing and disappearing, saving people right and left, and always being at the scene of one accident, fire, or death or another. It seemed that barily a week passed when something wasn't going on with him getting into mortal danger and escaping with some story or another that always seemed off. And he had a knack for getting out unscathed. In fact, if she remembered right, she'd only seen him sick once and wounded once with a broken rib that had been mysteriously healed a week later. It had all made her wonder, naturally, but it never raised any red flags until Lionel asked her to investigate. And even then was so much conflicting evidence everywhere. Sometimes, she sincerely doubted she would ever understand her friend, much less why he was how he was or how he'd saved her life all those times in the last couple of years. 'And now, he's saved your life again, and this time he might really have to pay for it,' she realized, wondering if Clark was lying dead next to her. He always seemed so industructible. Now, here he was, helpless, with only Chloe to help him and she was distracted with trying to solve one of the great mysteries of all time. Chloe sighed, turning her attention back where it belonged, trying to figure out if it was his heartbeat she was feeling on her arm or if it was her own. Shaking her head to clear away the vast mirage of thoughts clouding her focus, she fine-tuned her hearing, blocking out the rest of the world. 'Hang on, Clark.'  
  
The world melted away and she was overwhelmed by the sounds of the creatures in the forest, scuttling around through the bushes. Most were probably running away from the ruckus. Pausing, she listened more closely. In the far off distance, she thought she heard metal against metal, a rough scratching sound, a few clanks, and a snap. She waited, ears perked, and after hearing no more queer sounds for about two more minutes, she decided it was safe.  
  
Carefully, she crouched next to Clarks motionless body, peering intently through the woods without moving her protective postion over his body. After a full minute of searching the dark oblivion that was the forest and yeilding no results, she finally allowed herself to breathe. Her whole body was tense with every movement in the clearing around her, and all she wanted was to be free of the wretched place. But friendship, even the diminished version she now shared with Clark kept her stationed over his body, guarding him from the world, gently checking his pluse and resperation before struggling to turn his almost lifeless body over.  
  
He was covered with muck all down his front, oozing over his shoes, work jeans, and blue plaid shirt. His face was slathered with mud after his dive toward her and the harsh landing he'd taken only feet away from her. 'Protecting me,' she though, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her hair. 'Saving me.' Leaning back on the heels of her dark boots, she didn't even think about the fact that she didn't look much better after her nose dive into the ground next to him, her black jeans caked with mud and her red blouse almost unrecognizable. She had half of the forest floor in her blonde locks, and absently she rubbed most of the dirt off her face. Clark filled her senses as leaned closer, disreguarding anything but him.  
  
Chloe examined him closer, brushing his face clean with the one clean sleeve of her shirt and brushing her fingers through his fine hair. Momentarily, she lost herself in his smell and the feeling of stroking his hair, almost convinced that he was sleeping peacefully and she was waking him after a nap. He looked so serene, Chloe almost forgot about the tranq in his side, snapping back to reality by a soft moan and nearly imperceptible shake in his head. 'Focus, damn it,' she lectured herself, 'back to business now.'  
  
She plucked the dart out of his side from a gaping wound, and looking closer at the tranq, she realized that while the case was now empty, it had a strange, iradesent green glow to the tip. In fact, the metal case seemed to shine from some inner green light, like emeralds. 'Or meteor rocks,' the thought dawned on her, causing her the reporters side of her brain to prickle with interest. Poking at the hole in his shirt where it had entered, her finger tips gingerly proded his torso, looking for the entry wound she'd overlooked moments ago. The tip was pretty cumbersome for dart, and the tranq itself was much larger than she would have expected to take out a teenage boy, even one as large as Clark. Chloe's worry spiked as the tips of her fingers scaled his body without result. The skin was flawless with no trace of the wound as big as her pinky was round anywhere on his chest. Frowning, Chloe turned the dart over in her hand once again. 'I saw the hole, I took this from his skin. I felt that hole. Where is it?' Thinking along those lines, she turned his hands and arms over, searching for scraps from the frantic landing near her. Not a single mark marred them, despite the fact he'd splashed so much mud up he'd hit the hard earth below. 'So where are the cuts?' Pushing her reporters' instincts down, she pulled her cell out of her pocket, unlocked the keypad. She dialed Pete first, briefly surmising the situation, explaining they had the Kent's only car. Then she called the Kent's, explaining Pete was on the way pick them up, and that Clark was in a bad way. Neither had asked that many questions, which surprised her, but she tried not to think about all that was wrong with the situation, even though she couldn't help but wonder. Focusing at the task at hand, she squelched her curiousity until the calvery could arrive and she could be certain Clark was okay. Nonetheless, the questions dancing through the back of her mind refused to be ushered away and she gave up trying to banish them.  
  
The calls made, Chloe statisfied herself once more that Clark's vitals were stable. Convinced that he was just knocked out, she straightened up and pulled a second tranq out of a tree behind where Clark had been standing. Turning to where she had been just minutes ago, she pulled two more shells out of the ground near the log she'd been stationed at. Flipping them over in her hand, she memorized their every detail with a trained eye. These were filled with red goo rather than the green one that she'd found near Clark. They were much smaller and looked like the kind Chloe always saw in the movies; silver, long, the point of a needle and with only a minute amount of liquid in them. And no meteor rocks tainting them. 'Why were they using two different types of tranqs, one meteor-tipped?' joined the growing mass of questions in her mind, the most pressing being 'Why were they shooting at US?' Growning more concerned by the second, she put the unused tranqs in the pocket of her jacket and fished Clark's keys out of his jeans. Sticking them in her jeans so they wouldn't get lost, she tried to settle the boy in a sitting position against a log to his left. No luck. Slightly amused, she wondered how much he weighed. 'Well I always knew Martha was a good cook...'  
  
A few minutes later, Pete showed up after picking up Mr. Kent and the pair lifted Clark into the back of Pete's convertible. Chloe clambered in the truck beside Mr. Kent at his request without fuss, though she really wanted to sittinig with Pete, discussing the situation. Wondering if Jonathan knew that, she spent the trip collecting her thoughts silently, dazed by how much a situation could change all in few minutes time, and sneaking appraising looks at Clark's dad through out the ride, catching him repeatedly doing the same but ignoring it. After he'd reassured her Clark would be just fine, he hadn't spoken again. And now more and more questions were formulating in her sharp mind. Something wasn't adding up, and Chloe was determined to find out what.  
  
'Well, Clark, you've got some explaining to do. And this time, I'm getting the truth.'  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Chloe's green eyes were alight as she sat back in a worn arm chair. Silently, she sipped on a steaming mug of strawberry tea Martha had been kind enough to make after the group had arrived, though Chloe was the only one who had taken a glass. Now that she knew Clark was alright, she was thoroughly interested by the whole situation, but also incredibly frustrated by the fact that no one was telling a thing about what was going on. Not that she was showing it, naturally. Chloe knew that she hadn't proved to be the most trustworthy person after the whole Lionel incident, and she had no doubt that the Kents would be entirely unwilling to tell her even a half-truth. She didn't blame them at all for it nor would she ever look into the incident unless Clark asked. She knew her place in protecting Clark, it was something that she took great pride in doing. If the family wanted her out of it, she would stay and choke the questions from her mind. But she couldn't help her natural curiousity, reporters instincts, and the thrill she got out of a good story, the high it gave her that she doubted any drug could top. Yes, she'd squelch it down and accept whatever lame story the Kent's cooked up this time, but even she, with all her practice, couldn't stow away the gleam of interest from her bright, keen eyes. Not for lack of trying, though. She was certain Clark could see the inner-battle waging to trying and snuff it out. He always saw through her.  
  
Just a half hour ago she'd been a wreck. Clark had lay crumpled on the couch, out-sizing it in all dimensions, with a warm, cranberry wool blanket draped over his sleeping form. While undoubtedly worse off then she, she envied the fact he'd momentarily escaped the onslaught of questions from his parents. Chloe had spilled her guts, out-lining everything she knew and even producing the three stray tranqs from various pockets of her tattered coat. It had taken all of twenty minutes for Jonathan to be satisfied, most of which Martha spent next to her son, straightening already perfect blankets, fluffing already fluffed pillows, and stroking his peaceful face, tracing the curves of his jaw just as Chloe had in the woods. Chloe wished she could do the same, guilt overflowing her concious, yet she dared not move from her chair pinned there by Jonathan's stares and pointed questions when she paused her story. He was incredulous, seemingly with her, his body language saying more than the few words he spoke. He paced across the room, back and forth, back and forth, driving her out of her skull. The he'd stop and stare at her, a look of distrust, before motioning for her to continue.  
  
As he was almost vibrating with a so-far untapped rage, Chloe did all she could to keep it that way. She now knew Jonathan Kent was not a man to be messed with in any capicity. Sitting in front of him, she had no misconceptions about what he would do to protect his family. She realized in a terrifying moment he would kill, perhaps already had. It wasn't the gentle man she was used to, and the transformation was frightening. She knew he wouldn't lay a hand on her, but she also found that quite a bit of that quiet rage was aimed at her, a surprizing result of her betrayl. Chloe had known she'd betrayed Clark, but through out the week she'd found that she had somehow gotten into Pete's black books as well, and now Mr. and Mrs. Kent were angry as well. 'This goes deeper than I assumed,' she thought, saddened by how awful it felt to have wonderful, kind Martha thrust a mug into her hand with a bitter coldness that she hadn't even experienced in a Kansas winter. It only deepened her remorse, solidified it, and ensured that it would subside in no short order. For now, it was here to stay, and not even the determined curiousity she'd aquired with that knowledge could shatter it.  
  
Then, blessedly, Clark had roused. Disoriented and nerve-wracked, the trip back to the real world had been a long one for him, taking all of forty-five minutes since they'd arrived home. His mind was obviously cloudy as he had first spoken, talking about Chloe herself, whether she was alright, whether she knew...something. A undetermined something that had jolted her from the landscape of her thoughts where she'd been prodding at various questions in her mind. Though she was sure she hadn't visibly showed her return, she must have stiffened, as the turn in conversation had pulled Pete from the shadow he was lurking in at the far end of the room. He'd hustled her into a back room of the house while the family conferred, in no more mood to talk than he had been all week despite proddings that Chloe had administered. Ten minutes later, when they'd returned, Jonathan's anger had intensified, Martha had an ominous look of worry etched into her delicate features, and Clark wore a look of bewildered determination she recognized but couldn't place.  
  
Chloe had returned to her seat, picked up her mug, and gauged the crowd in the room. The reactions to the Kent's discussion only aroused more interest in her, and surpressing it was becoming a chore. Clark sat, more rumpled than ever, on the couch in all his mud-splattered glory, watching her with a keen eye, probing her. She had the odd feeling of being tested for something, but for what she was unsure. So Chloe returned his gaze full force with no idea what was going on and just sat there, drinking her tea and watching Clark. He broke the silence, an act that startled her from slipping back into her thoughts too deeply.  
  
"Chloe, I want you to tell me exactly what you saw from the time we left the school to the time we got here." She nodded, set down the cup, and opened her mouth. Clark, however, knew what she was going to say and beat her to it. "I know you already did, and you're probably totally confused, but I'll clarify later. Now go on."  
  
So she she did, carefully repeating almost word for word what she'd told Jonathan minutes ago. When she was done, he seemed satisfied enough for her to go on.  
  
"So now I'm left wondering." She glanced at him before continuing. The veil he'd drawn over his eyes flickered out momentarily with those words and it struck her subconciously how old his eyes looked, how tired and omnipotent, as though they were reading her thoughts. Yet at the same time so innocent and overwhelmed and terrified and helpless and so many feelings he'd long ago banished from his persona. Clark was a paradox, that much she knew, but it still startled her when he displayed it so openly, his eyes telling one story and his body another. It was uncanning and surreal, a picture of who he really was, but such truth is not meant to last. And it didn't, appearing only for a moment before he drew the veil across his eyes once again and prompted her on, away from her thoughts.  
  
"What are you wondering." A statement, not a question she noted, a little hesitant and extremely weary in the delivery.  
  
"Lots of things. Mainly, what just happened? Since when do manics go shooting a kids in the woods...in Smallville? And why was he using tranqs, no bullets? He wasn't shooting to kill, so why bother to make sure there weren't any witnesses? What was he going to do with us when he'd drugged us? Why'd he run afterwards, if it had been important enough to even try? He could have just reloaded and shot again, but he didn't. Was it even a he? Why us? It wasn't random-" Now, she knew she was babbling slightly, but all of the questions overtook her at once. Sighing, she mentally kicked herself but had little control of her mouth. It seemed to have a mind of its own today. It wasn't listening to her at all. Chloe didn't even realize she was till talking. Clark had to cut her off.  
  
"Whoa, okay, Chloe. One at a time." Again, the paradox eyes slipped through, now salted with a pain she couldn't identify. It was a look she'd often seen in Clark, right before he tried to explain something weird that had happened, like what had happened when he'd saved Lana from the tornado. In short, it meant he was going to lie, and Chloe knew it right away. Mental sigh.  
  
'Not less than I deserve, just less than I expected,' she reminded herself, keeping her mounting disappointment in check so he wouldn't see it. 'Maybe he'll tell the truth this time...' It was a false hope, but she needed it nonetheless. "Well...Why don't you tell me what the hell is going on?" Her eyes glittered again, ready to absorb his answer into their unfathomable depths, like a mental tape recorder for her near-photographic memory.  
  
Clark saw it and knew to tred carefully with this one. There were some questions he just couldn't answer for her right now, and her first was one of the hardest to navagate. With a deep breathe, he began to explain.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Clark sighed. A deep, whole body sigh, that did absolutely no good for him. Chloe was his friend-his good, four year friend-depite everything, all the wrongs on his part and her part. So while hers had been the most recent and the most wounding to their long friendship, it was still extremely difficult to lie to Chloe. Especially to her face, especially in front of his parents. He watched Chloe lean back and sip tea from his moms least favorite mug, wondering if that had been on purpose. He saw her eyes skip from one person to the next, finally settling on him. They sparkled slightly, the look of amusment and questions lurking behind the shades she'd pulled across them. She almost seemed to be daring him to lie to her, asking him, 'What are you going to say to get out of this one, Kent?' He didn't want to lie, but what choice did he have? His parents would colassally freak on him if he even came close to telling her the truth. Flipping through the possible lies, he decided flat out, old fashioned denial was the best way.  
  
"Chloe....I don't know why he was shooting at us. You're right in that it couldn't have been a hunting accident. After all, who hunts with tranqs? It's not even hunting season. I don't know what he was going to do with us, or who he was, or why he ran, or basically anything other than what you know. There was a guy who followed us, so I decided to pull off and ditch him, we thought we did, settled ourselves in the woods, and then next thing I know there's a big green dart sticking out of my side. I know I tried to dive toward you, but frankly, everything after the dart is just kind lost time." Clark returned her look, only where hers was probbing, his was just plain bewildered. Not that hard a look to affect, considering that is mostly how he felt. Silently, he willed her to accept it, and when she didn't seem to, he decided to add a little extra umph to his story. "Chloe...Maybe, they weren't after me, like you are assuming. Maybe..maybe they were after you. Lionel might have sent him."  
  
Chloe just sat there, struggling to hide the disbelief that threatened to swallow her. Classic Clark explaination. So much wrong with it she didn't know where to begin, but just enough of the truth and his innocent look to make it seem plausible. Ever so slightly plausible. Not something she could prove, or disprove, and just enough without making it over the top. Of course, the guilt trip on the end was a nice touch, too, thought it didn't fail to make her somewhat angry he was bringing it up for the umptenth time this week. 'Damn you Clark!' She wanted to say it so bad and list off everything that was wrong there. 'But if that was the case, why were you watching for someone to follow us? Why would he shoot at you first and not me? Why was my dart just regular while yours was the size of freaking elephant tranq with a METEOR tip? Yeah, maybe you don't know where he was, but I bet you know why he was following us. What were you going to tell me in the first place that was so important this guy had to stop it? How do you know it was a he? You seemed pretty confident in that. Oh, jeez, the list goes on, and on, and on. Why couldn't you have even come up with a good lie?' Chloe couldn't bring herself to speak, afraid one of a zillion responses other than acceptance would come flying out of her mouth. But she had settled on accepting whatever he told her and that is what she had to do. She didn't deserve anything more, and he didn't deserve any less.  
  
So Chloe just nodded. She set down her drink on the coffee table, stood up and nodded again, as though trying to force herself to believe it. "Al..Alright." Her voice faltered once, than she picked up a confident tone of acceptance and repeated it. "Alright. Okay. I believe you." A wide smile covered her face and Chloe hid behind it. "I'm going to go home and see if there is anyway I can salvage my clothes. Maybe take a shower..or ten. I guess I'll see you monday at school." With that, she nodded toward the Kent's, asked for a ride from Pete, turned on her heel and walked to the door, nodding to herself the whole way.  
  
Clark knew she didn't buy it, but he was relieved that she was accepting his answer. At least, he hoped she was. He couldn't resist calling after her, "Chlo? This isn't Torch material right?"  
  
That, Chloe couldn't take. She could pay her dues for her betrayl, she could swallow his sad excuse for a lie, she could put up with the Kent's, and Pete, and everything else. She had it coming, she knew that. But the fact he would even think that she'd use the paper for something like this, something they so obviously didn't want others to know. Perhaps, if they had called the police, she'd have thought it over. But they didn't, so the thought hadn't even crossed her mind. What he had just done was questioning her integritity as a friend. Even through Lionel, that hadn't wavered. Chloe had given him nothing, and Clark still questioned her loyalty. And to put it with her nickname was even worse, like it was a friendly question. If he even had to ask that, maybe he wasn't the Clark Kent she knew. Or thought she knew.  
  
Trying hard not to radiate anger, she whipped around and looked at him, stopping right in the door frame, the sun filtering in behind her. Her eyes flashed despite her efforts and her mood was obvious. Still, she fought to remain in control. "No, Clark, I would never do that. I would never use the paper for a story about you that you don't want in print. I know I love the oddities that plauge our little hamlet, but I would never use it to betray a friend. I'm a better person than you give me credit for Clark, I'm a better friend than that."  
  
Then she lost it. He had been hinting, nudging about her betrayl in their few conversations all week. 'You want to talk about it? Fine. We'll talk about it,' she yelled in her mind. Her voice started to raise and she made no attempt to keep the biting edge off her tone. "I didn't give Lionel any information on you. I have been trying for months, risking myself, my reputation, everything I've been working for, my dad's job for godsake to get out of that stupid deal with the devil and that isn't enough for you. I know I was wrong and I'm grateful for the second chance, but give me my dues! Everytime you've screwed up in this relationship, I've dealt. Perhaps I was angery, or hurt, and maybe it was uncalled for, but I never went back and threw it in your face like have this past week. We may have moved a step apart, alot of steps apart, but I didn't go on showing you all your wrongs every freaking day."  
  
Now she was trying to hold back her tears. No luck. Her face was crimson with all that she had wanted to say for so long but had kept back. Chloe felt that she had lost control of her own ability to speak as her voice cracked from the effort of keeping the tears locked away. Her face became splotchy as she went, a hot rushing river of tears leaking out of her eyes, obscuring her vision. Absently, she pushed them away and continued her rant. "You ran out on me for Lana a thousand times, you kept me out of your life, you rescued me and then were gone in an instant, you abandoned me and then only came back when you wanted something, when you need a little of my reporters knowledge, and I didn't say anything. I have let you walk all over me and when you came back at a time of your own convience, I let you back in and helped you. Well that's enough Clark! I've had about god damn enough of your crap. I've screwed up! I know! I've apologised and taken my punishment that I know I deserve. But that doesn't mean you have to tell me about it and ignore me and then try to guilt me into doing what you say, as if I don't feel so horribly guilty and awful and dirty and sick about it all that I feel like my might fall of shoulders because of it or my insides my just have crawled away because I feel so empty inside."  
  
Now she was just a sobbing, blithering mess. With a voice wracked with passion that seemed to make the words even sharper, she went on. Clark stung, white as a sheet, with every syllable that spilled from her mouth. It felt like she had taken a sword and rammed it into him over and over again, and what was worse is that it was all true. He knew it was true. And what startled him is how wrapped up he'd been in himself for so long that he missed how much he had hurt Chloe. It didn't make what she'd done go away, but he was starting to understand how she had done it. And it only got worse.  
  
On she went, voice strong for the tears shaking through her body. She was vibrating with anger and hurt he had instilled in her over the years. Now she didn't even care what she was saying, couldn't have stopped herself if she had tried. "I can only take so much Clark, and when you question my loyalty to you after everything, well, that's just it. You just broke my back with that little comment Clark. There's a line between friendship and the news, and I wouldn't cross it. You should know that, Clark. I thought you did, but apparently there are a lot of things I've been wrong about with you. So just back off, Clark, and get the hell out of my life before I regret all the days I spent worrying and crying and caring about you despite it all. Wishing we could just get it right and stop getting hurt. I love you Clark but I can't. I just can't do it anymore."  
  
All through out the tirade, she hadn't moved an inch, just stood there in the doorway, all arm movements and expressions. Now she just stopped, giving him a look so penetrating that it seemed to crack through the air and pierce him. She cradled her arms to her and stepped back, unable to speak for the sobs overtaking her small form. With that, Chloe's face scrunched up and she ran out the door, down the steps, and started down the drive. Pete raced after her not even thinking, no longer angry from what she'd done. He caught her and pulled her into a hug, strong enough to keep her from pulling away as he held her. She buried herself in his neck and just cried. It was five minutes before she'd calmed enough to let him put her in the passanger seat of his car and drive her home. By the time they were out of the drive, Pete was afraid she'd gone catatonic.  
  
And in the house, in the living room he knew so well, a place of safety, Clark just stood. He stared out there, frozen in place, white as a sheet. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Clark hung in a moment, feeling more beaten and riddled with pain than any exposure to the meteor rocks. As she sobbed, as she left, as Pete tore down the drive, Clark stood, staring after, more utterly lost then he'd ever been in his life.  
  
In second the world could change, it had once again. He had no way of knowing that by tomorrow, it could only be worse.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Thunderstorms in Kansas were Natures release. The clouds hung dark and heavy in the air, full of unspoken rage just waiting to come pelting down. The rain would fall in drops the size of superballs, smacking into the dusty ground with terrible force. Earth mixed with the water creating murky, swiriling rivers of alarming stregnth, englufing anything from fence posts to Ferraris that dare get in their way. Thunder would resonate through the sky, like a rumbling baratone singer, accompined by a terrific show of lightening cracking eerily through the air. Winds would splatter the driving force of the rain every which way, eating away at mud and trees and underbrush, sometimes with enough sheer engery to rip down stalks of corn or even the dead shells of once mighty pines that grew in the forests. Thunderstorms power is undeneiable and frightening, but the storms come and go, subsiding as quickly as they overtake a town. Behind them they leave destruction to be dealt with, but even so, a cleansed feeling settles over the world afterward, making it all seem new and refreshed somehow. Even the air feels cleaner after the thunderstorms burst. The clouds break apart and wander away, leaving rich, royal blue skies and a bright, golden sun behind. And all is well.  
  
Thunderstorms are like some people; the kind that let anger build in them until they burst, then the pent up rage and hurt comes spewing out in a meltdown, leaving them relieved and more clear-minded afterward.  
  
People like Chloe.  
  
But Smallville was not lucky enough to have a thunderstorm that Saturday morning. Instead, the scent of impending rain hung thick through the town, choking whoever dare step foot outdoors. A heavy curtain of lead-colored clouds were draped like a veil over the heavens, hiding away the cheerful sun and deep blue sky Smallville was typically graced with. Rain trickled in and out, never a downpour, always an unsatisfying drizzle, and never enough to empty the clouds above. No wind playfully stirred the dusty drives nor thunder boomed overhead. Just the shadow of the sky looming over the town, casting a melancholly feeling over its inhabitants below. The clouds would shower down rain in short, sporatic bursts when the clouds seemed ready to bust. Some never do, just blow away. Others build up and up until finally they could hold it in no longer. They hit their breaking point and snap, unceremoniously dumping their water on the Earth in a rush, overflowing the fields and flooding the lands in a flash. These are the dangerous storms.  
  
These kinds of storms are like other people; the kind that bottled up their anger, hold the weight of the world on their shoulders, and only let their anger and pain show through every so often in momentairly bursts. They are never satisified with that, and they anger and burden just grows and deepens within them. Some are harmless. Some are not.  
  
People like Clark.  
  
It was a depressing day, the kind of day that made any sane person want to curl up in bed and pull the covers over their heads. It would be days before the weather passed and anyone could hope to see the sun again, unless the clouds decided to rebel and surrender their holds to the thirsting Earth below, a mixed blessing releasing them from the spell the weather had cast over the mood of the town and delievering flash floods in its place. But Jonathan was Kansas man born and raised, having studied the weather for decades. He knew the clouds and their secrets with a chilling acuracy, and today he felt sure the latter would not be the case. No, today, he decided, was just a case of an acute bad mood and weather, and he surmised that a change of scene was just what his family needed to get out of their funk. So Jonathan pulled his family out of bed to attend the weekly Farmer's Market held at the other end of town where the Kent's sold Martha's prized organic produce to the crowds.  
  
Wearily, Clark had gotten up before dawn, (which never did break that day), to finish his chores and load up the truck for his father. He tried all morning to shake off the depression that was blanketing him, but he was never entirely successful. Chloe's words from the day before still stung at him like old wounds, her voice constantly echoing through his mind and distracting him, even from the beautiful breakfast Martha had prepared to cheer him up. Though Clark didn't notice, both parents were worried about him, not just because of the problems of the last couple weeks, but because of his reaction to them. He'd had troubles before, but he had always found a way to beat them head on. For some reason, something was getting the better of him this time around. Some mental phobia or feeling of being completely overwhelmed, that his mom could sense off him. So when time rolled around to start off for the Market, Martha stopped him at the door.  
  
"Clark, honey?" She put her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to straighten him posture and stand up to his full height. She perked up on her toes and cupped his chin lovingly in her plam, pulling it down toward her, coercing him look her directly in the eyes. His face was full of surpressed sadness, and a glum tone hung there that she hadn't seen on her son since he'd found out his true orgins and fled to the graveyard. Martha lovingly brushed back his hair and pulled him into a hug. "It's going to be alright sweetheart. Don't let it get you down, at least not today. Things may seem awful--"  
  
Clark interrupted and drew back a little, just enough so her could peer down into his mom's face. "Seem awful?" he intoned.  
  
"Okay, are awful," she sighed. "But you know, you've still got your father and me. You can't pretend you don't know how much we love you, Clark, no matter how much the world might be going topsy-turvy right now. And then there's Pete. Maybe you can find him at the Market. I made some cookies last night, I could pack a few and you two could go hang out at the Talon for a while afterward, have some cookies with your lunch." A warm smile filled her face, but she couldn't make it reach her eyes, not with her son so upset.  
  
Clark and Martha had seperated, her still refusing to break the gaze they shared. "A few chocolate chip cookies don't solve my problems anymore, Mom," he replied. The words were supposed to be sullen, but she couldn't help but notice the smile on his lips as he said them. She knew it wouldn't take much more persauding to get him to take them.  
  
"Maybe not, but they can't hurt. Their your favorites and my specialty, afterall, and we can't let your father eat them all. Again."  
  
"Alright, you win." He grinned this time. "I'll take the cookies." Clark grabbed the bag of fresh cookies off the counter and held the kitchen door open for his mother. She murmurred her thanks and the pair clambered into the truck, Martha riding shot-gun and Clark spreading himself across the whole backseat and cramping his legs to fit. Jonathan locked up the house and jumped in the drivers seat, pulling down the long drive just as another drizzle, slightly harder then before, poured out of the clouds and splatter on the windshield of the speeding, loaded down truck.  
  
By the time they hit the asphalt of the main road, the rain started coming down in sheets. It was nothing coming compared to the thunderstorms they normally got this time of year, but still enough to slick down the old paved road and make flowing, rising rivers in the irigation canals on either side. Jonathan kicked the window wipers up a notch as they rambled down the two lane highway. He cursed himself for not getting the car in for repairs the week before. The wheels needed rebalancing and the treads on the back wheels were starting to wear down. He had to fight the wheel a bit to keep on track. Not enough to raise any alarms, but still noticable to him.  
  
Martha stared out the front window, studying the patterns the water made in the road in front of them. It swirled and splattered, sending ripples through the puddles covering the asphalt. It twisted and turned, slidding gracefully off the edge and started to mix with the dust and muck near the canal like a kalidascope. Though such a small thing, it mesmorized her with it's beauty as the yellow glow from their headlights threw odd colors across the pools of water. Her worry for her son never left her and she was lost in thoughts of how to solve at least one of Clark's problems for him, as she gazed across the landscape of the open road ahead.  
  
Clark was off in his own little world, bitterly replaying Chloe's tirade of the day before through his mind. 'You should know that, Clark...' 'So just back off, Clark, and get the hell out of my life...' Her tear-stained face and shaking body swam through the fog enveloping his mind. It had tormented him the last few days, and had rendered him oblivious to the world around him for the last 12 or so hours. Now was not the exception. In the days to come, Clark would kick himself for being so self-involved. But even he, with all his stupendous powers, couldn't change what would happen next.  
  
Still staring out, Martha's breathe caught in her chest. From the illumination of the headlights, she saw a branch lying in the road. It wasn't just a stick they could glide over in their four-wheel drive truck, but a branch that looked as though someone had sawed it off a tree. It lay strewn haphazardly across the highway, not ten feet in front of them. Two other cars were heading in the other direction to the left, effectively cutting off the other lane, and to the right was the irigation ditch was steadily filling with water and would crash the truck. They had no way to swerve to avoid it, no way to escape the inevitable impact.  
  
"Jonathan!" The shrill shreik came from her mouth half a second before the car hit, snapping Clark from his thoughts moments too late.  
  
The right front wheel hit first, launching the car in the air. It landed badly on the wheel and the metal groaned against the weight of not only the truck and its riders, but half a dozed crates of veggies in the bed. The back tires blew as they landed on the sharp branch as well, causing the car to fish-tail and spin out, loosing several cases on the way. The weight unexpectedly shifting tipped the truck, making it do a complete 360 before landing on its wheels and diving into the ditch. Hood embedded in the muck, the car finally stopped.  
  
A little dizzy from the spin, Clark caught his breathe and lifted himself from where he was trapped in the backseat. His seatbelt had broken and now there was a Clark-shaped dent in the wall of the truck he'd collided with. Cautiously, he bent the metal enough to facilitate his escape, and settled in the back in the remains of the seat. Glass was covering everything and had shredded parts of the fabric. He knew he'd knocked his head several times, but the impacts had hurt the truck more than him, making odd dents in the roof and the floor. Gasping, his unnatural eyes grew wide when he saw the front of the car.  
  
Both his parents were covered with scraps and shards of glass. The whole front seat had been pushed forward on his mothers side, pinning her right leg between the door, dash, and seat. Her head had broken the passengars window, leaving a nasty gash on her head. Her arm was bloody and she lay limp in against her seat belt. 'Concussion,' he thought, scanning her her leg and finding it broken in two places. Her arm wasn't broken, but two of her ribs didn't line up. Shifting his glance, he studied his dad. If possible, he looked worse. The seat belt had some how wound around his arm, breaking it. The steering wheel was jammed against his chest, pinning him in place, and there was a deep cut winding down from beside his eye to his chin. His hair was matted with blood and his legs were stuck under the dash. Three ribs were broken and it looked like there might be internal bleeding. Jonathan's right ankle was shattered brutally by the petals. He wasn't moving. At all. Worst yet, the bottom of the truck was taking on water. The canal they'd been stuck in was steadily rising, and the water was seeping in through the doors. It wasn't high enough yet, but his parents would get hypothermia if they were submerged too long.  
  
Outside, Clark remained calm and steady, but inside, he was panicking. Somberly, he couldn't help but let that sheer terror creep into his voice. "Mom? Dad?" he whispered, then spoke, then yelled, shaking his mom and then his dad in turn. There was no response.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Clark shook away the fog that was materializing in front of his eyes and snapped into action. In less than a moment, he'd surmised the situation at hand that looked grimmer by the second. None of the side windows would be big enough to pull his parents through unhindered and the windshield was a no-go as it was nose deep in muck, debris, and water. That left the truck bed, blocked by piles of thick wooden crates that sat like splintered death traps in the back, covered haphazardly by a soaked blue tarp where water was pooling and swirling, now mixed with sharp shards of glass. Deciding on the rear window, he pushed his body into "Clark-time" and spun into action. Barely glancing at the roadway, his only thoughts of a way to save his parents from the flooding and freezing car. He failed to spot two cars a few hundred feet off that would be upon the site in minutes, if that. Or the steadily worsening storms. Or the temperature plunging down the scale in not only the air and sheets of rain, but the car and water filling it as well. The day was growing more hazardous by the moment, but Clark didn't spare even a passing thought to it as he focused on his escape.  
  
Lunging his elbow viciously through the back window, tearing away his sleeve on impact, Clark ducked through the opening and turned the bed of the truck into a graveyard of sawdust and random veggie parts. Clothes stained red with the remenants of his mother prize winning tomatoes, he wrestled the tattered tarp to the road side a good distance from the ditch. Speeding back over to the truck, Clark realized that he could never carry his parents through the opening. It just wasn't big enough, and if anything, their injuries would just be worsened from scraping the metal. Worse case, the trip through the window would kill them. Worse case, they'd break a few more bones. Without a second thought, Clark casually peeled the roof back and cleared the window of excess glass to allow himself the room he needed and set to work on his parents, making a mental note to bend it back before anyone came.  
  
Slowing down considerably, he reached for his mother first. Snapping her seat belt like a twig in his massive palm, he took great care collasping the dash in on itself to free her leg. Scooping her up, Clark craddled his batter mother in his arms, gently rocking her and reassuring her motionless body with a lullabye she'd sing him as a child. Swinging a leg over to the truck bed, he was back in real time until he lay her down on the tarp and gently lay a kiss on her blood-stained cheek. He wipped her cheek and glanced at her angelic face. The face of the only mother he'd ever known. As far as he was concerned, the only mother he'd ever had. She was one of very few people who mattered to him, truly mattered. Clark would give anything for her. The sight of her made his heart shake and he tore his gaze away and returned to the truck before hot tears could roll down his cheek. Martha was someone that he knew he would never have survived without. He couldn't say that about many, and another of them was lying yards away in a truck, and it was time Clark return to him. Pulling his mud-soaked jeans from the ground where he knelt over her stricken form, he rose and ran flat out to the truck.  
  
His father would definitely be more difficult to free from his tangled position in the wreak. Clark lay his left hand on his fathers shoulder to hold him in place as he wretched the steering wheel back and up, nothing more that a piece of useless plastic that was in the way. He tore it out of the car and out the back window in frustration. Repeating the exercise with the dashboard that froze his legs in place, Clark quickly did away the petals of the car as well. The car suffiently gutted and its parts were strewn helter skelter about the side of the two lane highway. All that was left was the seat belt that had shattered Jonathans' arm. Without hesitation, Clark severed its hold and unwound the fabric gingerly. 'Thank god he was knocked out,' Clark thought, knowing how much pain he would be in when he woke up.  
  
With care one might take carrying a time bomb, Clark delicatly gathered up his father. Carrying his still form out of the wreckage, he took the walk over to the tarp slow so he could be sure not to cause further harm. Just as he was setting his father down on the tarp next his mother, a pair of cars drew up beside and several people ran whole-heartedly through the gail to reach them. A girl in her twenties pulled out a magenta Nokia and tapped in 9-1-1, hysterically relating the incident and location to a dispatcher on the other end, though most her words came out in bursts of slurred and rushed words that were almost unintelligible. The dispatcher tried to soothe the young blonde and she choked back tears long enough to get the message through. Three others, one man in his later twenties, the eldest of the group, two women rushed for the tarp. They stood for a moment, gaping at the couple lying on the ground. The dark-haired man and brunetter woman about his age stood side by side for a moment before sharing a knowing glance. These two had arrived together in a white Honda and were clad in garb few in Smallville could afford. If Clark had cared, he would have realized they were from Metropolis, and that knowing look had been one of determination, pity, and recognition. This wasn't the first accident they'd been to, something that could go either way in terms of luck. A pretty blonde joined them momentairly, but the second her bright, sapphire eyes caught sight of the tarp, she fled to her yellow Ford, her small frame wracked with sobs as her friend tried to comfort her and speak to into the phone at once. Her friend led her a distance away from the tarp that obviously wasn't just for the comfort of the quickly dissolving blonde. A wise choice, as the sight was enough to induce a similar reaction in most.  
  
There on the tarp was Martha Kent, bloodied, bruised, tattered, and torn. Her red hair was spotted with a deeper crimson from her forehead wounds and her broken ribs and abdominal scraps soaking her shirt a similar hue. Martha's face was picture of serenity despite; her unconcious features not injuried enough to obscure her beauty and to casual observer, she might only have been sleeping, aside from the slathering of blood dribbling here and there. Jonathan was another matter entirely. He was evidently worse off and it showed. His arm stuck out a wild angle, as though untamed by the bones within. Likewise, his right ankle pitched to the side rebelliously. His chest and stomach were swollen and bruised, and he freely shed blood from his face and cuts. Needless to say, it was grotesque and unnerving. And there was Clark, off to the side, tearing apart the bottom of his shirt as he tried to stop all the bleeding all at once with limited success.  
  
Clark looked horrible. He was soaked to the bone, parts of his clothing ripped and sopping as he tried to help his ailing parents. His muscles gleamed as the water rolled off him, his hair plastered to his head and his shoes squelching as he moved. Blue-green eyes shone with determination to help though a look of horror and terror prevailed in finding a place on his handsome features. Just now he was starting to allow thought to absorb him, thoughts filled with bitterness, depression, regret, saddness to the extreme and a number of other emotions he could have singled out if he'd tried. Clark liked action, liked to be able to help, and to his credit, he was good at it. But where medicine was concerned, Clark knew little to none and was starting to wonder if he'd even done the right thing, removing them from the car. He prayed he hadn't worsened their respective conditions, prayed they'd wake soon, prayed they'd be well and fully recover. Anguish and helplessness enveloped him and sheer panic rushed through is system. In fact, he might have exploded in rage at his inadaquecy right then and there if the sound of crying hadn't pulled him to the present and steered him away from his train of deeply pessimistic thoughts.  
  
It disturbed him as it rose into a cresendo, violently squashing the sound of the storm around him. The shuddering breaths, the horrified sobs, the desperatness of the whole endeavor chilled him to the very bone. Whoever was crying, they needed help. They needed comfort, and that Clark could do.He wanted to give it almost as much as he needed it himself. Searching for the sound, he opened him eyes and peered through the rain to his left. There, he spied a girl sobbing as she sat on the hood of her car, drenched by the rain. But she must have been fifty feet away. Even he could have heard her sobs so clearly over the rain, feel her sadness reverberate through his very soul by the sounds the tears she shed. It had shocked him out of his thoughts, which were in turn shocked enough by the whole situation, and now he couldn't seem to shake the sound from his ears, couldn't tune it out and consentrate on what he could do for his parents. Clark's vision blurred and heart called out for the weeper, more concerned for them than he was for himself. Their pain took his mind of his pain and worry. He didn't even take notice of the couple off to his right in despertate search for the source of the heart-breaking sound. Suddenly it struck him light a bolt of lightening. It was him. He was the one crying.  
  
The realization amazed him but the new wave of shock started to wear away and Clark sunk into his sobs, drooping into the mud on the side of the tarp. He couldn't do anything to save his parents now, and no matter how much he tried to clear away the blood, it just keep flowing. There was so much it startled him, the knowledge it came from his parents made him sick, and the fact that he couldn't hardly look at their mangled bodies didn't aid his efforts to help. Trying to force himself to stand, he was desperate to just gather them up and race them to the medical center in two seconds flat. Clark would have if he didn't think it would kill them. They were too fragile to be moved, much less accelerated to sixty miles an hour unprotected. Fear raced through as he thought he might have hurt them with his efforts to save them. His mind spun with guilt over the fact that he couldn't look at them, help them, bleed for them, even. He sunk down further into a pit of dispair as he fought for breathe, to center himself and focus. Clark only succeed in making his fit worse.  
  
A light touch on his bicep sent a cold chill down his spine, but he didn't respond to it. Nor to the soft, gentle voice of concern that filled his ears with words unintelligible to him. Clark was numb, nearly catatonic as the brunette tried to comfort him, rubbed his shoulder to warm him, whispered reassurances in his ear. Clark knew none of them. Martha and Jonthan filled his vision, the wounds he couldn't force himself to look at moments before now a sight he couldn't tear his eyes from. A strange man now worked on them, but Clark knew that he was helping somehow, knew that he caused no need for alarm. He watched the man used his rags to try and help the Kent's, turning their heads so wouldn't catch water in their lungs as they breathed, checking their stats and whispering clamly to a barely stirring Martha. Clark didn't blink, didn't move as a blearing siren in the distance approached and came to a stop near by. Didn't speak or even register that he heard a voice as an officer tried to lead him away from the scene as paramedics swarmed his parents. The officer failed miserably. Clark wouldn't leave his parents side as the medics assessed them and worked to stablize them. He forced himself up on his feet and stuck in the ground near them, keeping a watchful eye on their still motionless bodies, and only a force of nature or act of God could have moved him.  
  
And from the deepth of his existance, Clark cried.  
  
The thought never crossed his mind that they might not live to see the next day.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	20. Chapter Twenty

'I was right. I was right!' The thought played over and over in the man's mind as he sat in his rich leather office chair. The dank, rotting cabin bathed in shadows in which he rested clashed sharply with his form. Dressed simply in a new black suit, his apperance very kept and tidy, a smile lined with malice inched across his weathered face. In minutes, he would have to start to hike back to his jeep if he wanted to make it to his meeting with Lionel on time. And he had to remember to change out of his hiking boots and into his new dress shoes if he didn't want his boss to throw him out, like last time. Of course, that had probably been for the news of Keith Jones, rather than the hiking boots. But for now, none of that even crossed his mind as he shut the folder in front of him with care. 'I was right.'  
  
Glancing down at the file in front of him once more, he leaned back and closed his eyes, glowing with the knowledge that Lionel would finally be satisfied and quit hounding him to work faster. When he'd started the job, it was supposed to be routine survallence with a large payout. When he'd found out exactly what Clark could do, it had gotten intersting. But when Keith Jones had arrived in Smallville, everything from the job description to his clearance had changed. He had gotten in on the plan and handled everything personally, including drawing up a detailed history of Jones, a task much more difficult that he'd imagined it would be. 'What's so interesting about a small town guidance counciler from Metropolis?' he'd thought. But the harder he'd looked, the less he found, and the more interested he became until just last week he'd stumbled on Mr. Jones real story. And it was quite a read.  
  
Jones was a scientist with an acute interest in pyschology. He worked privately for various employers on matters of the mind and its workings. Jobs that needed to be kept on a low-profile for security reasons, the kind a guy can get killed for talking about at a bar or bragging about to a date. Between his cutting edge mind and extremely private life of few friends and no family, Jones became the go-to guy in the business for everyone from Hong Kong to New York. Jones delved into his work and left his competators in the dust, often all but disappearing for weeks at a time when the muses smiled on him and he got an idea. Jones always came out of those weeks of solitude and had a great deal of work to show for his time. Few questioned his methods. Many questioned his sanity. And Jones lived up the controversy.  
  
Then about a decade back everything changed. He unexpectedly quit the job he was working on, severed any ties with friends, and retreated into himself, becaming something of an urban hermit living in a high rise in West Metropolis. No one gained access to him or his apartment, and he became so suspicious of people even those who delivered the nessecities to him had to be in the elevator before he'd claim his goods.  
  
Some had said he'd finally cracked all the way, but the man in the cabin didn't believe that was the cause for his withdraw from society. At Lionel's request, he'd uncovered evidence that Jones had been working on a private project of sorts, one closely connected with mind-control methods Jones developed himself for a company stationed in Washington D.C. It effectively shattered ones defensives to influence and subtly forced ones emotions to the surface, often causing the person to become overwhelmed, angry, even suicidal. The mind needed to be raw for the hypnosis/medication combo Jones used to work. He had made a seditive to make his client relax and would then use hypnosis to lull the person into a state where they are suspecible to the power of suggestion, and used that to control them without their knowledge. The hypnosis was stronger, no doubt, than convential methods, and was so seemless that the patient would believe any notion the therapist had put into their head was their own. It felt completely natural to anyone and could even work on those traditional hypnosis couldn't control. There were a number of several safe-guards in the programing so that the patient couldn't revert back once the treatment was complete. In theory, one could walk into a session with a therapist and walk out completely cured of what ailed them.  
  
That was what Jones created it for at least. He had hoped to use it to help people who had suffered severe personal trama, but he was notoriously short sighted. Jones never thought more than two steps forward in his plans and hadn't realized what other uses the "therapy" could be used for until years after its development. And by that time, he ceased to care.  
  
Jones had realized there were a several kinks in his plot that he couldn't iron out. The therapy could only be preformed on a young or adolocent mind that was still impressionable and the technique was very delicate. If another therapist took over the treatment after it had been started, the patient would reject it and become rather deranged. Likewise if the treatment wasn't completed, but none of that stopped Jones. It only fueled him. After several test groups that had gone horribly wrong, Jones had tweaked the formula and tested it again. This time, 75% of the test group had accepted the programming and been esstentially cured. Jones decided to put his program to use to help those he deemed worthy.  
  
But Jones had gotten a little deranged himself over the years as his programming became more and more effected. Soon 99% of all patients accepted it, and Jones had put some unconventional ideas into their heads on how to cope and move on after thier repective tragedies. Many walked away with eating disorders or obessive/compulsive disorder. A few of his patients had been convinced into suicide, a few others into murder. Jones found his patients through an amoral private detective who'd do anything for a buck. All were enrolled in some form of therapy or another, and Jones would gain access by taking the place of that therapist. And through that detective, Jones had found Smallville.  
  
It seemed to him the perfect place for his service. A town where people died of bizzare murders dating back as far as 1989 when a meteor shower had taken place. Even better, a job as school guidance councler had been opened up, giving him access to the people he believed needed him most; the students of Smallville High. So with a move to Smallville and quick switch of his name and the murder of his private detective, Jones secured his job in Smallville and was on staff for the 2003/2004 school year.  
  
Lionel had wanted Jones researched when he realized he was not only seeing his precious Kent, but Sullvian as well. Therapists had that nasty habit of getting their patients to open up, and with the secrets between those two, Lionel couldn't afford for anyone to find out there was anything special about them. By the time the man had gathered all the facts for Lionel, Jones had already started the proceedure on the two. The man's pleas for Lionel to spare Sullivans life until he'd received all his intell on Jones had been a wise one that had saved the project. Sullivan was instumental in Jones' plan for Kent, and if she'd been killed as Lionel had planned after their last meeting at the Torch a month and a half ago, Kent would have cracked up and the whole project shot to hell. All Lionel could do now was have the man break into Jones' computer and tweak the plans for Kent and Sullivan to his liking. Jones hadn't even noticed the changes. Well, tweaking plans and speeding up the process. He had to make Kent and Sullivan a bit more vulnerable and a lot more tormented to peak Jones' interest. But since Lionel and the man had started stirring the pot a little, the therapy was working out beautifully and Jones was doing everything according to plan.  
  
The smile widened on his twisted face as the man picked himself up off the chair and gathered up the papers before him. Lionel would be pleased with his work. Sullivan and Kent would soon give in to the sessions with Jones. Phase one was almost complete.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	21. Chapter Twenty One

The rain had sputtered and drizzled on for the next quarter hour before abandoning its attack altogether. The storm had left the sky stained a meancing dark gray that spoke testimony to fact that it was far from surrendering. The sun seemed bent on rejoicing the momentary pause, however, and found a weak spot in the clouds. It peeked through in front of Clark, sillhouting him against the near-ebony sky as he watched the ambulence scurry down the highway at 40 miles an hour, the fastest it could manage on the slippery roads.  
  
Lex spotted the scene about a half-mile away and impatiently sped towards it before he screeched to a stop a few yards from a curious crowd crowded behind the yellow caution tape. There was a television camera and reporter from the local news channel and a Ledger reporter interviewing a police officer off to one-side. But what had caught his eye was off to the far right, lodged off the highway and half submerged in the rising water of an iragation ditch. It was a truck. Not just any truck, but the Kent's truck. At least, Lex thought it sort of looked like a truck he'd seen Clark driving when he'd delivered their vegtables last week, but only if you cocked your head to the left and squinted a little. Still, it was enough for Lex to bother trudging out of his porche through the mud to interrogate a policeman on a day so soggy he typically wouldn't have even left the castle.  
  
That's when he spotted Clark. He was standing farther down the road next to a water-logged blue tarp. No one seemed to have noticed him standing there yet, so for the moment, he was alone. Normally, it wouldn't have been anything to make Lex worry; he'd gotten used to Clark being at the scene of an accident over the years. But upon seeing him today, all Lex wanted to do was to go up and give him a hug. And hugging was not something Luthor's do.  
  
Clark stood facing the road, staring off in the distance at the fleeting back of an ambulence. He stood stock still and was silent, his face blank and his posture so straight and tall it looked as though he had a metal rod in place of his spine. Despite his stance, Clark was anything but emotionless. Soaked to the bone, his jeans and shirt clung to his soaked body as though hanging on for dear life. His jeans were streaked with earth and mud from the ground around him and bunched up around his ankles and knees. The white shirt he'd donned that morning was nearly transperant and ripped randomly, leaving the bottom and sleeves hanging in scraps over his abs and biceps. Blood had tainted it and was caked so thickly over parts of his arms and torso not even the pounding rain had been able to cleanse him of it. Lex wondered with a shiver how much of it was Clark's and how much of it belonged to whoever had ridden away in the ambulence he was watching with such intensity.  
  
Clark's full dark hair was plastered to his and hung limply around his ears, and he allowed water to dribbling from it to the sides of his face. His beautiful, unearthly eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and there were paths of water carved down his cheek that had nothing to do with the rain. The whole of his face was raw from crying, and more blood was smeared over his cheekbone like bizzare war-paint. His being exuded exhaustion and complete, total sadness. It almost frightened Lex. He had known Clark for nearly three years now, and during that time he had seen Clark change emotions almost as much as his clothes. Happiness. Anger. Frustration. Nervousness. Hope. Wonder. Dispair. But never, in all of those years and the many hundreds of times he'd seen Clark had ever seen him so sad. Or seen him cry. Clark was always, to a certain degree, in control of himself, and tears were something that Lex had never imagined seeing him shed. It seemed impossible for him to break down like that, so blantently loose the carefully measured restraint he radiated. Now here he was, standing shin deep in muck on the side of a road, tears blazing down his cheeks. He looked so lost, so terribly miserable, and so completely drained that it seemed to be a trial just to stand there. He looked...beaten. And it scared the hell out of Lex to see the one man in the world he deemed unbreakable utterly shattered. To Lex, as childish as it sounded in his mind, Clark was invisible. His own, personal hero that couldn't be harmed by anything physical or emotional. Clark was the man that he hoped he could one day come close to measuring up to. Clark was the opitamy of all that he desired. Now here he was, broken, absolutely unprotected. And Lex would have given anything in the world to make it better.  
  
He drew in a breath, realizing that he had been standing there for a full thirty seconds. A junior officer no more than 22 ambled over to him and offered a weak smile. Mopping the water off his forehead with the back of his wrist, he pushed his dark brown hair back as well before addressing him. "What can I do for you, Mr. Luthor?"  
  
"What...what happened here?" Lex stammered, his gaze still caught on the form of his best friend. His only friend. 'He looks almost like an angel,' Lex thought, 'standing against the sun like that.'  
  
The officer just stared at him, and it took a moment for Lex to realize that the man hadn't heard his question. He'd barely been able to choke it out as a whisper, and the scene was filled with the clatter of people talking and the rumble of police scanners all around. "What happened?" Lex repeated himself more clearly, nodding toward the tatters of the truck in the ditch.  
  
"We aren't all that sure yet. When we got here, the kid had pulled a man and a woman from the truck and a couple of medical grad students were working of them. Didn't catch their names. I guess that when they pulled up the kid was cleaning out their wounds and had gotten them out already. He hasn't said a word to anyone, except when the paramedics were putting the man on a stetcher. Right before you pulled up, actually."  
  
"What'd he say?"  
  
"To mind the left leg, said it was broken in a couple places pretty badly and it wouldn't do to have the bone fragments working their way into the blood stream. Something like that. He's in shock, I think. Just stands there." The officer shook his head, as though it were a shame, but Lex could tell that he was still green enough that an accident scene was exciting.  
  
"Who were the man and the woman you took to the hospital?" Lex jerked his head over to the officer when he didn't respond right a way. "What the hell were their names?" The anger bit into his words and acid dripped from his voice. Panic was steadily rising in chest. 'It can't be,' he thought. 'It just CAN'T be...' He hummed the mantra over and over again in his mind, willing the man to say anything but what he knew to be true. 'It can't be...'  
  
"Ummm...Kent something, I think. Yeah, Jonathan Kent. I've seen him in town. His wife was in there to, I'm pretty sure."  
  
"No.." Lex breathed. Suddenly everthing made sense. "**** no!" Lex was in motion before the words had come out of his mouth completely, and he ran over to Clark's side. Clark's face was still blank and his eyes were unfocused and strangely vacant. It almost looked as though Clark had packed up house and left his body behind altogether. Lex shivered again.  
  
Drawing up in front of him, Lex stood tall enough to look up into Clark's eyes. "Clark..." His voice was soft and trembling as he called it, staring into his friends eyes and searching for any sign of Clark in there. No recognizition. '****..'  
  
"Clark!" he called, voice tinged with urgency and desperatly waved his hand at his friend. Still Clark stared on into the horizen over Lex. Still vacant. Lex's mind screamed in denial that this could possibly be happening. Clark's parents, Jonathan and Martha, they held Clark together. Without them, he couldn't help but wonder if Clark would just fall apart.  
  
"Clark!" Now his voice was had a piercing edge to it, and he tenetively shook his friends arm as he called it. The touch seemed to jolt through Clark like a blue, leaping finger of electicity and he almost jumped out of his skin as he leaped away from Lex. His eyes refocused and his whole body tensed as he pulled away from Lex's outstretched hand so fast Lex couldn't even register the movement. It startled him, but not nearly as much as the fear in friends eye at the sudden contact. "Clark, you should get to a hospital." The words seemed to make him even more tense as he backed away from Lex, his eyes wide with pure fear.  
  
"Yeah, I have to get to them. I need to get there..." Clark mumbled, distracted.  
  
Lex's gaze softened. "Clark, you'll see them later. Right now I'm going to get you to Smallville Medical Center so they can check you out. I think your bleeding." He eyed a large patch of blood on Clarks shirt near his heart and the smear along his cheek bone. He wasn't sure which one made him more nervous, but he was cetain that both had to be checked out. There had to be some sort of serious injury under all that blood.  
  
"No way. Nu-uh. I'm fine." Clark's eyes grew bigger, if that was even possible. It seemed like they took up half his face. "I'm fine," he repeated again in the same soft, far-away voice with the same firm undertone. "Fine."  
  
"No, Clark, your not. Look at all this blood!" Lex stuck out his finger, pointed at Clarks tattered shirt. Clark jumped away from his finger as though it were a hot poker Lex planned on sticking into him. Lex had no intention of touching him again. It obviously put him on edge, and Clark was wired enough as it was. "You have to get to a doctor, Clark. There is no way you got out of that truck without getting hurt."  
  
Clark just shot a side-ways glance at the truck as he picked at the blood on his shirt. "This isn't mine," he replied, indicating the blood. A chill ran through him at sight of the various car parts strewn about and the roof of the car peeled back like a can of sardines. Most of the damge he'd done was hiden beneth the swiring water and would be chalked up to that. But the roof...that he couldn't explain. And at the moment, he could care less about his secret and the lies he'd have to tell. It was what his father would say to the destruction that scared him. He just hoped his father would be alive to lecture him on it. For now, there was no way on this side of Hell Clark was getting near any doctors. Which posed something of a problem, as they'd taken his parents to the hospital and every fiber in his being called for him to be near them. "I'm fine, Lex. I have to get to my parents." Clark suddening looked Lex in the eye and his voice morphed from the soft, shocked tone to an almost threatening one. "No doctors."  
  
Lex realized that only way he could Clark the medical attention he needed was to get him to the hospital. There he could get some back up, someone to help him convince Clark to get treatment, or maybe just jump the skittish boy with a sedative. Probably the last one. The whole Kent family was vehmently against Clark seeing doctors of any type. He'd respected that, but now he just couldn't do it. Clark needed help. Fast. "Alright. Jump in my car. I'll drive you." He studyed Clark, watching him struggle to decide what to do. He'd never read Clark quite so easily before. The day really had taken a toll on him.  
  
"No. It'd be faster on foot," was the reply. Lex couldn't help but laugh at that one.  
  
"Not unless you could be beat my porche, which clocks in at 250, in a foot-race," Lex laughed, glancing at his car with a smile.  
  
But when he turned back to his friend, Clark was already gone.  
  
I love reviews. They make me happy. So delight me, :) please!  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

Let's skip the preamble.   
  
Onto the show.  
  
"...Thanks, Cathy. I'm here on I-5 where a car has plowed off the interstate and into an iragation ditch, seriously injurying the driver and one of the passangers. Both have been taken to Smallville Medical Center for transportation to Metropolis, where they will recieve proper medical treatment. While the police have yet to realease a statment, other sources have identified those injured as local farmer Jonathan Kent and his wife Martha Kent. Their son, Clark Kent, was also in the truck at the time of the crash. Two passersby who stopped when they saw the wreck claim that Kent pulled his parents from the wreckage. How anyone could have survived that accident is beyond me, Cathy."   
  
  
  
The uptight young man that was relaying the news in a melodramtic baritone shifted slightly and allowed the camera to pan the scene. Random car parts from the interior of the truck were scattered across the landscape. Only the bed of the truck was visible from its angle in the ravine, but from the state of the chasse and the deep gashes across the metal and smattering of broken glass that littered the dirt around, it was obviously beyond repair. Assorted rescue personal were leaving the horrific crash in a rush as their jobs were completed. Police officers were meticiuously documenting the scene, going over each truck part and footprint with an almost unnatural studied patience. There was frenzied feeling around the site despite the measured movements of the CSI's, almost as though the entire team had been jacked up on caffine and were speeding their way through. From the looks on their faces they seemed to feel the whole exercise was a futile effort. After all, this was just one more bizarre case to go unsolved in the depth of the Lowel County archives. It would be in good company, among the most baffling unsolved mysteries in the nation that routinely drove scholars and veteran detectives crazy with their random clues insane witness accounts. But nonetheless, the workers toiled away in the noontime humidity and heat beneath a shadowy gray sky in hopes of returning home before the rain once again began to fall, washing away any evidence left behind with it.   
  
  
  
The young man straightened his tie and pasted on another grin. His whole demeanor reeked with his discomfort in the dark blue blazer and khaki pants more akin to a museum guide than a television reporter. He continued his speech about the condition of the wounded farmers and the police investigation before returning the viewers to the newroom with veteran anchor and barbie doll look alike Cathy O'Keefe.   
  
  
  
On that note, Gabe Sullivan swiftly punched the 'Off' key on his remote and sighed deeply.  
  
  
  
Gabe had loved Smallville and it's charm when he had moved Chloe and himself here four and a half years ago. He'd relished the chance to leave the city and its smogy dankness. It offered an oasis from his deadend job and Chloe's unfulling high school with a student paper so censored by the administration even lunch menu had a hard time getting published. She'd had no chance to shine there and had percious few friends to depend on among the rich and priviledged that spread as far as the eye could see. Since the Sullivan's couldn't be counted among their private ranks, Chloe had been outcast and Gabe shunned at the private school PTA. He saw Smallville as a place to start over and get away from all the bad times his family had experienced in Metropolis. 'Smallville is safer,' he'd told himself. 'This is the right move. Accepting this promotion is the chance you've been looking for!'   
  
  
  
Now, though, he realized how terrible a misconception that had been. Over these past few years, Gabe had grown to hate Smallville and wish despertely for a chance to escape it. But after pulling the strings he had to secure that promotion years before, he knew there was no way out short of quitting to leave the cursed town behind. And he hated to fathom what might come of that decision. One thing he learned long ago was that you didn't leave Luthor Corp. Luthor Corp chewed on you and wore you down until it spit you out when it was good and ready, never before. He had seen all to well what happened if you tried to escape it, and refused to let it happen to him or to Chloe. 'The consequences are too great, even to be rid of Smallville!' he often had lectured himself, even back in Metropolis. But since he'd moved to Smallville and seen what happened here, he often found himself wondering if maybe, just maybe, it would be worth it in the long run.   
  
  
  
In the time he'd lived in this 'leafy hamlet,' as Chloe used to call it, he had worried for his daughters safety more than he had when she walked alone at night on the seedy Metropolis streets. She'd had to endure hostage situations, abductions, physical and emotional attacks, tornadoes, parastic body hijackings, being thrown through a window and almost off a damn, being buried alive, various occasions when she had huge blowouts with friends and countless nights of crying herself to sleep, all on account of Smallville. Chloe didn't know he had found out everything he had. Sometimes she would talk to him about some terrifying instance that had come to be, confide in him like she used to. But it had been years since he had even seen her cry and it hurt to the depth of his heart that she felt she had to do it into her pillow rather than on his shoulder. It was almost as though she didn't trust him anymore and that scared him. Chloe was slipping away into the adult world far before she had to and it felt like she was tearing a piece of him away with her. He cried for her, ached for her, worked to protect in ways she couldn't even understand. In some ways, it was almost worse than what she had to deal with. Because Gabe felt guilt, too. Guilt over the fact that Chloe was broken and pained and scarred and he couldn't fix it. He couldn't save her when she'd needed saving. He couldn't protect her, no matter how hard he tried. And it would kill him if he let it.   
  
  
  
As a parent, he had learned to compartmentalize most of it as a coping technique and he imagined Chloe did as well. Chloe loved Smallville despite it all and her heart would have been broken if they ever moved back to Metropolis. Though she had never admitted it, he knew the reason lay largely with Clark Kent. He was a wonderful kid that Gabe found himself respecting and admiring for all the times he had saved Chloe when he couldn't, as well as the friendship he gave her. The Kent's had befriended both Sullivan's upon arrival in this hellhole, it was something he vowed never to forget. They were a shining light here that constantly reaffirmed what he had thought he would gain by moving here. But he knew that they had suffered far more than most that lived here and worked harder to retain some sanity through it all than anyone. They succeeded at it and were the most amazing people Gabe knew. He often wondered how they had managed to raise such a magnificant and honest son and keep their farm up and running from day to day. It was a testament to their stregnth and faith in each other.  
  
  
  
Now as he gazed on the blank screen and thought of the pain these incredible people were in, Gabe felt himself age ten years in an instant. The prodominent worry lines on his forehead deepened and the dark circles under his eyes seemed to weigh heavier upon him. That poor family. Chloe had been so tired and worn lately and now he would have to tell Chloe this. She would be devasted for Clark and no doubt spend the weekend with Pete by his side. They were such good friends to Clark, he felt certain they would rise to the occasion and help him through this. Clark was a person of extreme personal stregnt. He would be okay.   
  
  
  
Gabe just felt lucky that Lana was spending the weekend with Nell. Maybe they could wait until her return to tell her. Lana, Gabe knew, would cry for days if either of the Kent's died, and this in itself would undoubtably rehash old wounds from her 14 years ago. Not what she needed at the moment.   
  
  
  
Gabe sighed deeply again, blowing the air out through his lips for a long moment while he formed his speech to Chloe in his head. It would have to be just right if he didn't want her to out and out panic. Gabe grabbed the arm of his recliner and stood up straight, stretching the aching muscles in his back and arms. Groaning slightly, he headed toward the stairs and Chloe's room, pausing at the bottom of the staircase as he glanced up, weary with the burden of the news he had to tell. All that was left to do was walk up those steps and ruin his daughter's weekend. Then he could settle and grieve for his friends properly. He wished that he could just tell her and get it over with so he could collasp into his Lazy-Boy again.  
  
  
  
But he wasn't one to have his wishes granted and now was no exception. In fact, he never even made up the stairs.  
  
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on. 


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

Chloe tucked a stray wisp of blonde hair behind her ear and heaved a sigh. 'This article is going no where!' For some reason she couldn't concentrate today, not on her article or any one of the three movies she'd popped in her VCR, only to pop it out ten minutes in. It was frustrating her to end, and the more that she tried to focus the more frustrated she became until finally she'd just given up all together and collasped into her bed in a heap.   
  
  
  
Glancing at the clock, it blinked ten o'clock. It surprised her that it was so early, she felt as though it must be at least two. Almost on sight of the glowing number an odd feeling of fatigue raced through and she grew so strangely tired. Chloe scolded herself and struggled to stay awake. 'You slept like 10 hours last night, now you need to get something done for a change!' Her eyelids fluttered and she stifled a yawn in her throat, refusing to let it out and admit defeat. But after ten minutes of this, all the fight was drained out of her and she slowly started to drift off to sleep...  
  
THUMP! BANG! THUMP! CRASH!  
  
Chloe was wide awake in no time flat. Tradionally, she was a profoundly deep sleeper. It often took her alarm clock and a very annoyed Lana armed with a glass of cold water to wake her up in the mornings. Once, she'd slept over a fire at the neighbors house, complete with fire trucks and police cars with their alarms on full tilt. It frightened her a little how deeply she slept, and though she wouldn't admit it, she often worried about sleeping through a break in or an ax murder or something. Given another minute, even the thunderous banging from downstairs couldn't have roused her.   
  
Sitting straight up in bed, Chloe tried to surmise what she'd heard. It was almost like someone banging on the wall, and then falling. And...a muffled yell? Breaking glass, yes, there had definetly been breaking glass and now that she thought about it, there'd been a mechanical groan, too, like the one from the back door on particularlly humid days. Uncertain and little spooked, Chloe glanced around her room and grabbed an aluminum lamp she kept near her bed and wrapped the translucent cord around her hand. Stealthly, she ventured toward the door. On a whim, she shoved her cordless in her pocket as precaution.  
  
Easing the door open, she peered down the hall and listened carefully. Nothing. Stepping lightly and sticking close to the walls, Chloe walked toward the stairs. She knew she was probably okay on the top floor because the noises had come from down below, but she wasn't taking any chances, not in Smallville. Turning so she could check the mirror that hung in front in the stairs, a small gasp escaped her lips as she through all precautions, but not her lamp, to the wind. Rushing down the steps, she knelt beside her fathers slightly battered body, shaking him gently. "Dad? Dad??"   
  
Chloe strained to keep her voice free of tears and checked him over when he didn't respond. There was a welt on the back of his head and he was rather bruised, probably from falling down the hard wood staircase. There were scratches and cuts on his legs and arms, and blood on various places down the steps marking where'd he had aquired them. Checking his pulse and breathe, she noted both were weak and cursed slightly as the tears she'd held back so carefully spilled over her eyes and fell silently down her cheeks. Urgently, she called for him until she was nearly screaming. "Daddy?! Daddy, come on. Daddy, please. Please. Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god. Daddy! Dad!"  
  
Dropping the lamp, she startled herself with the sudden clatter it made. Wipping the tears on her wrist, she pulled out the phone and started to dial 9-1-1 before setting the reciever down. Chloe's breathe was coming out in gasps from the crying and her hands shook violently as she tried to regain control. She failed miserably as a quiet whimper fell from her lips and she ran her hand through her hair. Rocking up onto her ankles so she could lean against the wall to steady herself before she called, Chloe averted her gaze from her fathers prone form. It wouldn't do to be so hysterical that she couldn't tell the operator what was wrong. She picked up the reciever once again and rose to her feet, walking the rest of the way down the stairs over her father and settling down on the last stair near his feet. She started to dial again.   
  
There. A dark shadow swept past a window to her left and her breathe caught in her throat. Watching the next window, she saw it again, just for a second. 'It's a person. It's a man,' her thoughts screamed as she retreated for the safety of the stairwell again. Her eyes traveled over to the back door, the one she'd heard squeak earlier. There in the door was a broken pane of glass. 


End file.
